


Not an American

by DaughterOfTheRevolution



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Prisoner of War, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-04-28 08:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 56,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5085415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterOfTheRevolution/pseuds/DaughterOfTheRevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You really must not be an American as you claim to be," Ivan then spoke up after a short silence. Alfred never turned to him however, he remained standing with his back toward him, too afraid to turn and face the decision he made. "You adore that man too much."<br/>Alfred grit his teeth, shut his eyes and balled his fists. "He saved me from you. Of course I care for him," Alfred bit out. What he said could have been met with a harsh response, but Ivan seemed more amused than anything else, judging by the sound of his laughter.<br/>"And yet it is because of him that you are forced into my arms. How funny, da?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Summary: WWII American solider Alfred F. Jones and his squad of paratroopers are captured by Nazi Captain Gilbert Beilschmidt and his regiment who are then defeated in battle and captured by Soviet Lieutenant-Colonel Ivan Braginsky and his forces. With suspicions high on the Eastern Front, the Russians treat the American prisoners as if they were German spies, and thus mistreatment of actual allies ensues while Alfred's defiant behavior catches the Lieutenant-Colonel's eye.

“Ludwig, Ludwig! We need help over here, damn it!" Gilbert dunked when a shell exploded right near his station. Shrapnel ripped into the men surrounding him to protect him so he could radio for backup. Cursing the number of soldiers he was losing, the Prussian pressed the receiver closer to his mouth and shouted, "Damn it, it's the Russians!"

Gilbert and his regiment were just heading back to the city to drop off the war prisoners when they ran right into a Russian squad fully equipped and ready to fight. If Gilbert didn't receive aid fast then they were in some deep shit.

"Captain, the prisoners are trying to escape!"

Gilbert whipped his head around at the loud statement and sure enough his scarlet eyes caught sight of the group of Americans making a dash for it into the woods.

"Those dummkopfs!" Gilbert ground out, watching in horror as his men who gave chase fell to the artillery of the oncoming Russian soldiers. But the Germans weren't the only ones to meet their end in the barrage of fire, the American prisoners even found their mistake in attempting to escape their captors under the guise of battle. It was a stupid thing to do and even the ones waiting later to dart for it didn't learn from their fallen brothers on the front lines.

Gilbert made up his mind and darted after the breaking prisoner circle. His men were already in disarray of how to handle the oncoming Russian forces and now they were stressing more so to keep the prisoners still and in place. Gilbert shouted out orders to hold the Americans down, it was for both their own good.

"Damn it, get down, Alfred!" Gilbert shouted when he lunged on a particularly close American prisoner he had recently grown fond of. The soldier was no more than 19 years old, just a baby, and Gilbert wouldn't have his or his comrades' lives foolishly cut short if he could help it.

Gilbert could feel the boy struggling underneath him, and so the Prussian pressed all his weight upon him, using his palm to press against the back of the boy's golden head, pushing his face into the dirt to keep him still. The rest of Gilbert's men managed to secure the remaining prisoners but now they had to focus on saving their own lives when the sound of thudding boots echoed across the battlefield—the Russians were coming.

Taking out his walther, Gilbert extended his arm and shot every charging enemy soldier that came into line of sight out of the wafting smoke. The Prussian shot and shot until he ran out of ammunition. He went to reload, keeping his knee on the American prisoner's back that still lay underneath him, but the sudden last barrage of shells surprised him and the force of its close explosion knocked him back and covered him and anyone near him with up-kicked dirt.

It was the press of a gun barrel to the skull and angry shouts in a Slavic tongue all too familiar to the Prussian that brought him back to consciousness. A kick to the side was definitely for good measure to relieve upset for the brave Russian men Gilbert's regiment managed to take down in the fight, but in the end the Germans lost as Gilbert knew they would. He wondered if his distressed message ever got through to his brother whom he knew was stationed not too far from here.

Raising his arms, Gilbert managed to sit on his knees and shake the dizziness from his head. When the muffles in his ear clarified it was then he found himself distressed by something else. Of the American soldiers that managed to survive the battery, they were now in the hands of the Russian soldiers, being treated as exact equals with the recently captured German platoon.

"Let go of me!" Gilbert's ears were already attuned to the sound of Alfred. The boy had already made quite an impression on him and the other Germans the time they caught the American squad, and it seems he's doing the same to the Russian's handling him in equality with his German captors. "I'm an American, damn it! Stop treating me this way!"

Gilbert couldn't believe fellow allies were treating the Americans like this. Already he could see the Russian soldiers rounding up the surviving American prisoners and pushing them over toward where the rest of the Germans—now deemed prisoners of the victorious Russians—were being rounded up. Gilbert wondered if this mistake was because these Russian soldiers didn't know English, or if the worn German coats keeping the American boys warm were what swayed the Russians' minds from believing what the Americans were insisting. Either way, Gilbert didn't like the mistreatment, and, in want for fairness, began shouting out in Russian to the soldiers how the men demanding better treatment were speaking the truth.

"They are American!" Gilbert swore, startling the soldier baring over him. Even the harsher press of the gun to his head didn't hinder Gilbert from trying to win the case for the transferred prisoners. "I'm the head of this regiment and I swear to you we caught the—!" Gilbert groaned when the butt of the Russian soldier's gun hit him, dazing him.

"Keep quiet!" The Russian demanded. "All of you damn Germans."

Gilbert could hear the arguments waning while he tried to clear his vision, but of course one American was unseemly livid with the turn of worse situation for worse.

"Alfred," Gilbert groaned the boy's name, watching in dismay as a higher Russian officer came up to the three soldiers struggling with the American and dealt with the situation by ramming the side of a—was that a pole?—into the boy's head quite harshly, knocking him over and the conscious from his being.

"Alfred!" Gilbert gasped, well aware of the barrel now digging into his back and the growing annoyance of the soldier near him.

"I said be quiet!" The soldier demanded.

Gilbert wasn't one for injustice despite many of his people's actions. He wanted honor and clarity in war, and what he was witnessing was nothing of the sort.

The Prussian sneered at the way the head Russian stood over Alfred's mistreated unconscious form, and growled in upset at watching the large man press the end of the pole against the American's cheek, turning his face upward so he could have a better look at him.

"I said they're American!" Gilbert didn't care if he was beat again, all of this was wrong and he was going to address it no matter what. Finally the superior officer turned his eyes away from Alfred and spared Gilbert a glance. "You can't treat your allies like this!"

Gilbert didn't so much as flinch when the head Russian officer approached him with the same look he had Alfred before knocking his lights out, but Gilbert could certainly feel the stiffness in the Russian soldier near him. Every Russian soldier seemed to quiet when this man simply moved. The kind of fear he held in his subordinates was astonishing, but Gilbert would share none of it.

Finally, he was standing before the Prussian, his demeanor simply menacing. "As far as I know, Nazi, we were fighting Germans and they fighting us back. I see no Americans here."

With a deep frown the Russian turned on his heel and motioned for his men to round up the surviving prisoners. They were to be sent on a death march.

Gilbert was pulled to his feet. He was still a little off balance from his disorientation earlier, but he would find no help for his march, and, apparently, neither would the American soldiers.

* * *

 

"Come on, Al, you gotta wake up. They won't let us carry you forever!"

Alfred could hear the sounds of his brothers in arms, but just didn't seem to recognize the sound of their distress. He was tired, the Germans had them on poor rations and made them stand for the longest time at ungodly hours of the night—in winter no less. The only good thing they did was give them coats to keep warm in, but that was only because of the head German officer, Gilbert's orders. Right now Alfred felt a little rest was in order and just didn't want to open his eyes to the reality around them.

The reality that he and his surviving men were prisoners traded to be prisoners once again.

His sound and somewhat relaxing state was ruined the moment he was pushed over from the makeshift cot he’d been currently carried on. His tumble toward the cold ground stopped the prisoner march momentarily and it seemed the escorting soldiers weren't too fond of the hold. There were men on him immediately, forcing him to stand up, but Alfred only slouched forward, simply too exhausted and dizzy to stand up properly. The person he leaned forward on was warm enough and he would have offered a smile and thanks for their support hadn't his vision cleared enough for him to understand the man he was leaning on was none other than a German.

Alfred gasped and backed up, pressing into familiar faces and seeking American comfort. This might have helped hadn't the sharp smack to the back of the neck turned his attention toward a supposed ally soldier. Alfred frowned, glaring at the Russian soldier near him, seated easily in the seat of a truck with a smug-ass smile on his lips.

"Everyone carries their own weight and marches, comrade," the man said. He then motioned for the march to continue. "March."

Alfred wouldn't take this. He and his men were supposed to be freed, not get lumped in with their German captors.

"You can't do this to us!" Alfred complained. The strength of his lungs was the first to recover from his lagged state—a pity the sense in his brain hadn't. "We're American officers, and if you don—!" Alfred winced when the taut strap of leather—he was certain it was a prod—landed on his lips, stinging the chapped folds, but he held back his tears if only to glare at the Russian officer with defiant eyes.

"I did not ask for retort, I asked for movement." The Russian leaned a little further, closer to Alfred that the American wondered how he didn't fall out of the truck he was seated in. "Now." The prod's pressure weighed with the Russian's lean. "March."

Alfred wouldn't have moved an inch hadn't his men pushed him forward to save him from an unnecessary punishment. But even with the push the damn Russian made sure to keep an even pace with Alfred, staring at him while he rode alongside the line of marching miserable prisoners. Alfred at first stared back at him, but numerous jabs to the back from his fellow American soldiers had him turning his eyes ahead, however, the presence of the following Russian perturbed Alfred to no end, urging him to stop or at least turn and stare back, but he persevered at least until the sound of the stalking truck’s revving engines alerted the American that the Russian had moved on and drove up ahead of the group.

"Be careful, Al." Alfred turned back to his comrades marching behind him. They looked worried, frightened even. "Don't mess with Lieutenant-Colonel Ivan Braginsky, he's the head of the platoon, and he's not that forgiving."

Alfred had a feeling they were withholding some daunting information concerning this Russian and their predicament and Alfred worried over it, but, in concordance with his friends pleas, he remained kept . . . at least as much as he could.

The death march was not exaggerated in its title. Alfred watched soldiers fall and never get up. Some were still alive when they walked past them, the Russians not giving the time of day if the fallen were still hanging onto life or not. However, there came times when Alfred had stumbled, even banged up his knee pretty badly to where walking for any amount of time would put strain on his joint, but it didn't matter his exhaustion or injury, the Russian's, especially that Lieutenant-Colonel Ivan made sure to get him to stand back up and keep moving. And there had been days Alfred wanted to just be left to die, knowing that death was a much better place than the hell those Russians wrongly put him and his men through, hell, he even felt for the damned Germans marching along next to them. More than one were at least shot a day out of sheer entertainment and Alfred was growing sick of it all.

The closer they marched toward Soviet territory the colder it grew. They marched right into deep winter and soon enough they all were forced to stop and set up camp to wait out a thick paralyzing snowstorm.

The makeshift tents the prisoners were given were thin and barely kept out the elements, but by then Alfred and the other Americans had no qualms with sharing space with a fellow prisoner, German or not. It was so cold, even between shared bodily heat, that many would rather sit out in the continuously falling snow just to be near a lit fire. Alfred's preferred place now was out in the snow by the few fires they were allowed to have. By this point, he's long since learned that the fellow German prisoners were more so allies than their Russian captors.

"This is bullshit," Alfred muttered through chattering teeth. He was glad for the old German coat he and his men had been given during their first capture. More so he was thankful for the stoking fire in front of him that many a weary prisoner crowded around. If this kind of mistreatment kept up, Alfred was sure that none of the prisoners would make it to the prison camp they were all in the process of being escorted to. "We shouldn't have to go through this!" Alfred felt warm tears sting his eyes. His men were already stretched thin from the Russian assault and now at least one per were dropping dead a day.

"I'm sorry for your trouble."

Alfred looked up and noticed Gilbert Beilschmidt, the captain of the German regiment. He looked just as weary as his men, but he's held strong for them, keeping his head upright for the most part of their journey for that German pride.

Alfred still frowned at his statement. "Why? You would have treated us the same."

"Nein, lies." Gilbert frowned and glanced his red gaze over toward the patrolling guards, just as cold as them, but remaining posted to show the prisoners the frame of their loaded guns. "I would have never treated any of you the way they are."

"Sure," Alfred muttered. He shivered, wondering if the fire's even grown cold. His attention turned to the sound of the Russian guards, they were picking on a prisoner—an American.

"Stay seated," Gilbert warned, fixing a hard stare to still the American and keep his actions from catching up with his thoughts that would only end him in trouble . . . again.

Alfred narrowed his eyes at the Prussian, contemplating listening to him. Gilbert's kept himself out of trouble so far, so his advice was welcome, though, not always heeded.

Someone like Alfred couldn't sit idle when this was happening around him and so he jumped to his feet and made to push over one of the guards. This quick action startled the other and the man’s chilled hands fumbled about for his weapon laying against his hip.

"Go ahead and shoot me!" Alfred spat out while he reached down and helped his comrade to his feet. "But know you'll be killing an American soldier, and I hope to God the president sees to your detainment!"

"Over and over you swear you're American, yet you all sit so close to the Nazis and will not take off their coats."

Alfred turned. He had a special frown for Soviet Lieutenant-Colonel Ivan Braginsky. A frown that seemed to disturb everyone else but the large Russian.

There the man stood, in the shelter of a tent where the patrol guards would rest for a while before trudging back out in the weather to watch the prisoners. He was leaning against the frame, one flap open to reveal his relaxed smiling form.

"We're all freezing to death out here, so we keep close and keep the jackets. We'd gladly get rid of them, but only if you and your men provide us other coats," Alfred replied back.

His response elicited a chuckle from the head Russian, but the man only turned back into the tent to ignore. Alfred gladly shot him the bird before he and the abused American soldier returned to the fire. Alfred glanced toward Gilbert who simply shook his head and sighed.

"What?" Alfred questioned. "He didn't do a thing." Crossing his arms and leaning forward into the fire's heat, Alfred added a muttered, "he never does."

Alfred hadn't known what copious amounts of such attention would get him. So far he managed through the march, even though it was currently halted to let the rugged weather pass, survived the relentless ice and snow as well as abuse from the Russian soldiers, and soldiered on with the poor scrapes he and the rest of the prisoners were expected to live on.

The nights grew colder but he didn't complain. There were days they had to go without eating because of the poor rations. When the prisoner numbers dwindled some then they were served food fit for worms. It damaged many a psyche and thoughts turned dark and grim. But Alfred persevered like he always had and swore to himself that he'd live to return home. God, he missed the States so bad. He didn't even know how the war was going on in this frozen isolated prison.

But there was one night that came about where the previous isolation of icy hell didn't seem like such a bad place compared to what happened.

Alfred and a fellow American prisoner were in their rickety tent. They were huddled close, chest to chest to keep any heat emitted between the two. The snow had stopped but the winds chilled them more than that ice ever could. If the prisoners could manage a few hours of sleep every night then they could count themselves among the lucky. Most of the time they all ran on three or less hours of sleep every day, any longer managed then it was likely the prisoner was dead.

Neither Alfred nor his bedmate had managed to fall asleep yet. Their chattering teeth rung too loudly across their skulls, and their shivering shook either awake when one began to doze. But they hoped for rest, prayed for it.

When the flap to their tent opened it had been Alfred who was ready to cry out in upset over whoever let the harsh cold inside their already chilled tent. But the words caught in his throat when he watched two Russian guards slide in and take hold of his bedmate. The man yelped when they drug him out of the thin blankets they had wound themselves in. Already Alfred could feel the loss of his body heat and lamented firstly before his upset began to take him over for him to demand what the hell was going on, but again his words caught in his throat when he watched a third Russian enter his tent. It was Ivan.

Alfred might have said something in a moment or two when he managed to sit up, but the larger male was already on top of him, his smile darker than Alfred had remembered his previous malevolent displays.

With a cold hand pressed to Alfred's mouth, Ivan said, "If you cry out then I order my men to put bullet in his head."

Alfred's eyes widened at the posed threat to his bedmate and now he began shaking for an entirely different reason than chill.

* * *

 

There was no way Gilbert could sleep that night, not with how low the temperatures plummeted and his bedmate out by the fires. The Prussian was exhausted and just wanted a little rest, but without any source of heat he'd surely freeze to death in the night. So he got up and left the confines of his tent to make his way to the fire for yet another sleepless night. On his way he happened to catch sight of a couple of Russian guards mistreating an American prisoner. For a brief moment Gilbert wondered if the American had wronged them in some way; either being caught stealing food, cigarettes, flint, or just plain bad-mouthing them. The Americans were known to be more defiant than the Germans in the hold, especially one certain youth who got out of real trouble simply from the amusement of the commanding officer of this regiment. But even still, while the Americans were beginning to lean on the Germans so were the Germans beginning to bond with their fellow inmates.

Gilbert wouldn't let unnecessary mistreatment take place, and if he was punished for defending the right then so be it. A little fight might get his freezing blood pumping through him.

"Hey! Stop this!" Gilbert came up to the men and pushed the closest one off of the beaten American soldier. The other Russian soldier looked quite upset and made to strike at the Prussian, but Gilbert beat him to it. He really didn't feel like he had anything to lose and so punched the man right in the face. His knuckles smarted in the cold after the strike but it had been enough to land the soldier on his back for a short nap. When the other soldier regained his footing Gilbert decided to knock his consciousness from him too. It felt good to hit the Russians, and with the way Gilbert's heart raced he was certain he'd be feeling warm in no time.

Gilbert grinned to himself just for the hell of it, glad that this spot was more recluse from the eyes of other patrolmen. Leaning down he offered the battered American a hand. Gilbert hadn't expected him decline his offer for support, but the distressed American was quick to wipe his bloody nose and offer explanation besides the assumed held racism.

"A-Alfred!" The soldier gasped, his eyes glancing back to where the prisoner tents lay, a clear drag line in the snow lay as path from where he came. "Braginsky came in a-and they dragged me out!"

So much for the adrenaline pumping fire through Gilbert's veins. All he felt now was sheer ice in his gut over what he was hearing and coming to in his mind.

"W-We gotta help!" The American began to try getting up. The Russians had beat him in his struggle as they dragged him away from his bedmate and brother in arms. "I won't . . . I won't leave him!"

Gilbert would have offered his frame for the soldier to support himself on. The man’s left eye was swelling and with his already wobbling legs, Gilbert doubted he'd be able to get far on his own. But Gilbert left him. He left the soldier to his own balance as he, himself, turned and darted back toward the tents.

Even with the snow so high he made quick time. He knew where Alfred's tent was and as he came closer his ringing ears already caught sound of the boy's desperately pitched pleas. Gilbert didn't waste another moment and literally threw his life away in that moment when he pulled the flap of the tent back and leaned into the tent.

Sure enough, there was Ivan Braginsky laying over Alfred. The American had tears streaming down his face and his arms up in struggle with the overbearing Russian pressing down upon him.

Gilbert didn't wait for either to notice his presence. He reached out and took hold of that long scarf of the Russian's and pulled him right off of the boy as well as directly out of the tent and into the snow.

Gilbert thought about striking him for what he tried to do to Alfred—he could still hear the American's frightened sobs from inside the tent—but a sense of dread froze him and watched as Ivan retaliated quicker than expected. In an instant the Russian was to his feet with his gloved fist knocking right against Gilbert's temple. It hurt and the Prussian fell to the ground, but the moment he felt Braginsky take hold of him to lift him to his feet, Gilbert reached forward and struggled to pry his grip off of him. He braced himself when he watched that fist retract and reel for another pummel. But their skirmish had alerted the other prisoners who were trying to sleep in their tents. They came out immediately and offered support for the Prussian while posing a threat to the currently alone commanding Russian officer by encircling him.

Ivan noticed them immediately, his attention now pulled from beating the defending prisoner in his grasp to the surrounding war prisoners. The Russian looked around him for a moment before seeing some of his men approaching in the distance. They were just far enough for the prisoners to do the man damage if they wanted to and so he released Gilbert and let the Prussian fall to the ground.

Ivan straightened, took on the image of warden once more and smiled at the closing prisoners.

"It is very late, da? You all should be getting rest. It will be eventful day tomorrow," he spoke with calm while continuing to steal glances toward the oncoming Russian soldiers making their way through the snow to the cluster of prison tents.

None of the captured soldiers were looking for a fight, but Gilbert could see their tense forms and a few clenched fists. They didn't want to fight but they would defend.

The circle was broken when the Russian guards finally came. They pushed through the boys and broke them apart. They expressed their apologies to their leader who seemed more collected than them about the situation.

"Is fine," Ivan said with a wave of his hand. Gilbert caught him turn his eyes back toward Alfred's tent for a moment before turning back to his men and offering them a practiced smile. "Everyone was just turning in for sleep. As am I."

Ivan took up an escort and walked off, but Gilbert understood his muttered orders on his walk away. The remaining guards heeded the words said and took a hold of him. He knew he'd pay for what he did and so he kept to his silence.

He was dragged away, but he managed to catch sight of Alfred still inside his tent. The boy was trembling, tears still in his eyes as he struggled to put his belt back on and fix his ripped coat and disheveled pants. Their eyes met briefly and it was then Alfred shone understanding of who had saved him and the sacrifice he made for him.


	2. The Bribe

Gilbert was sentenced to cold isolation. He was to stand outside without the nourishment of food or warmth of fire. He was never told how long he had to do this so he assumed they meant to kill him this way.

Well, he'd be a fighter until the end, so the Russians had some waiting to do before they were ridded of his presence.

Gilbert wouldn't deny he was miserable. He kept to himself and tried to look strong to any passing comrade of his. They all looked so sad for him, but he felt it was better him than them. Though, he did wonder if the regiment would move any time soon and if he'd be taken with them or just left behind. Perhaps they were going to wait out winter . . . well, he certainly couldn't, that was for sure.

Gilbert was supposed to be kept by himself, but the guards observing him eventually grew bored in time and humored themselves with other things most of the time, so it had made it easier for someone to come to him, and that someone was Alfred.

Gilbert was surprised he approached him, even more so that the boy decided to sit with him in silence. Gilbert made no comment. It was actually Alfred who eventually broke the silence.

"Thank you . . . for what you did for me."

Gilbert turned his head to Alfred. He examined his face and noticed a more stern look to it. The youthful jubilance seemed to wane after that night. Gilbert was sad to see it go, but he understood the reason for its disappearance.

Nodding his head, Gilbert willed his jaw to move. "He hasn't touched you again, has he?" It would have been all too easy for that man to return later when no one would fight.

Alfred bowed his head to seemingly hide his quivering lip. "No," he replied, but the pitch in tone was caught by Prussian ears.

Turning, Gilbert reached out and grabbed into Alfred's coat sleeve. The boy was warm, and Gilbert was glad for his close proximity, but he didn't mean to grip him just to soak in warmth. He meant to hold him still to ensure the truth.

"Don't lie to me," Gilbert growled to his best ability.

Alfred pulled his arm away and looked into Gilbert's stare with hard eyes of his own. "He hasn't touched me since!" Alfred swore. He now looked more so angry over what happened than frightened now. Good.

Gilbert sighed and nodded. He relaxed his body and continually stared out into the frozen forest they were trapped in. He really had some sort of attachment to Alfred. Getting in trouble for an enemy soldier; what was the great Gilbert Beilschmidt thinking?

Perhaps it was because Gilbert was a big brother himself and tended to see every younger boy like his little brothers. Perhaps.

"Here." Gilbert turned his eyes back to Alfred and to what he held in his hands. It was a small cup of porridge, and it was still steaming.

The Prussian gladly took the cup and made sure no one saw him take it.

"They're going to start rationing food," Alfred spoke up. When he had, Gilbert looked down at the offered cup and then back at Alfred, wondering . . . "That's my last ration for a while."

Gilbert sighed and then attempted to press the cup back into Alfred's red hands. He could see the poor patchwork Alfred had attempted on his coat after the lower buttons were ripped off it by Ivan that one night. Gilbert frowned at the sight, but paid more attention to the sound of Alfred's growling stomach. What the Russians gave them was barely enough to keep them standing.

"Then take it back," Gilbert insisted. "You'll need it."

"Not any more than you," Alfred shot back, pushing the cup back into Gilbert's hand. He then stood up so Gilbert couldn't pursue the return. "Just eat it before anyone sees."

He then darted off and left Gilbert to what warm food he could manage.

* * *

Alfred had been sneaking Gilbert his food when it was given out. If not that then he'd bring him boiling water. Anything to keep the Prussian going. But of course his efforts were watched and one day he'd been grabbed by a guard who caught him on his return to where Gilbert was ordered to remain unless the head chose otherwise.

"Didn't think I wouldn't see you, huh, _'American'_?" The Russian guard said the nationality mockingly. The Soviet regiment still thought the American prisoners were German spies with very convincing accents. It was annoying how they were treated, but the Russians would not radio in to find out for sure . . . well, they couldn't now because of the weather every day.

Alfred didn't say anything, but he did struggle to get loose knowing the guards didn't like chasing the prisoners around camp. They were just as cold and tired as them, and just like the prisoners, they didn't run too well in the snow. But this man held onto Alfred tightly and pulled him to the main tent.

"Caught this one giving food and water to the Prussian," the guard announced, pulling Alfred before the higher ranking officers in charge . . . before Ivan.

The men immediately quieted and all eyes turned to the head officer, Braginsky. Alfred didn't want to look at him and so kept his gaze averted.

"Are you on a diet now, Jones?"

Alfred heard Ivan speak in English. He wanted to glare him down, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

There was a short silence before he heard the bastard speak again. "The food is for you and not him."

"He'll starve!"

Ivan grinned. "No he won't," the Russian sing-songed. "Not before he freezes to death."

Alfred couldn't take it. He clenched his fists and turned his head up, looking at the damn asshole right in the eyes. The bastard was smiling at him and Alfred hated it.

"He did nothing wrong to deserve this. If you want to kill him then just do it now!" There was no point in prolonging this kind of torture. It just wasn't right, even for a Nazi.

"So sympathetic for your leader, but I am unmoved," Ivan said, letting out a sigh and leaning back in his chair.

"He's not my leader," Alfred pushed out through clenched teeth. "I told you time and time again that I'm an American." Alfred was pretty sure he didn't have a damn drop of German blood within him.

"When will you and the others cease that guise, hm? It grows old as it does annoying," Ivan replied as he crossed his fingers together and laid his hands on his lap.

How many times would Alfred have to argue about this? He shouldn't have to. The damn Russians were their fucking allies; they shouldn't be treating them like this . . . or even the German prisoners. Nazis or not, this all was just over the top cruel.

"Don't do it again, do I make myself clear?" Alfred was pulled from his thoughts and made sure to continue his harsh stare at the Russian. Ivan simply matched him and then waved him away.

The guard who caught Alfred seemed baffled over the boy's escape from a punishment that should have been quite severe. But nevertheless Alfred was released. When the guard left, murmuring to himself in a language Alfred just didn't understand he made to take off and see if he could grab some hot water for Gilbert, but a heavy hand weighed his shoulder down and guided Alfred along with a subtle push.

"You would walk with me, da?"

Alfred immediately darted away from Ivan's touch when he came out of the tent to him. Ivan seemed to ignore Alfred's rejection and simply continued walking. "Come," he said with one last glance behind him.

Alfred remained defiant and would rather stand his ground and refuse the Russian's demand, but he knew he would eventually be forced to do as he said one way or another and so Alfred followed before things got physical.

"Sorry for the rations being so small, but we did not expect to be here this long. This weather is upsetting, da?"

Alfred continually refused to look at him and walked with the Russian in silence. He made sure to keep a nice distance. He wanted no contact of any sort.

"You seem to be eating fine," Alfred muttered. Even then he could remember the smell of sausages and cabbage inside the main tent where Ivan and his junior officers ate and communed. Alfred's stomach twisted achingly in his chest. He hadn't eaten in a while after giving most of his meals to Gilbert.

"Da, is because I and my men are Russian. Germans don't deserve any food we have. You and the others should be grateful we give you anything."

Alfred stopped in his tracks. His body shook with upset.

"I am _American_ ," Alfred insisted once more.

He heard Ivan chuckle. He too had stopped. "Nyet, the Americans are fighting on the Western Front, this is the Eastern Front. Stop the attempts."

Alfred grit his teeth. So what if this was the Eastern Front? The plane carrying Alfred and the soldiers in his battalion got lost and then shot down. They had to jump, they had to land way behind enemy lines. It happens. But just when they feel that their allies who found them would help them their hopes are dashed. It was unfair in every sense.

Alfred didn't bother explaining this to the Russian. The man already had it in his mind that he and the others claiming to be Americans were lying. So Alfred remained in his silence because he came to realize this a long time ago.

"Here." Alfred looked up. Ivan was standing before him, being lost in his thoughts allowed the man to draw closer, but Alfred didn't back away this time because when he looked down at Ivan's hands he noticed the man was offering a small wheel of cheese. Alfred couldn't even remember the last time he had the dairy product.

His slow response allowed Ivan to place the wheel in Alfred's chilled hands. Once done Ivan turned to look at the prison section of their camp. Most of the prisoners were huddled around the fires looking absolutely miserable with nothing but hot water to fill their bellies with—one small bowl of porridge was all they got a day now.

After a short silence, Alfred heard Ivan speak up again, saying, "I am in charge of this settlement, Alfred. You do understand that, if I wanted to, I can grant better rations for these wretched lives."

Alfred's eyes darted up. His attention drawn. He watched Ivan survey the lay of the prison section and all of the miserable residents residing therein. When the Russian turned to him Alfred watched his gaze land on the gift he had given him before those amethyst-like eyes moved up and down to take in the American's form. The sweep made Alfred more than uncomfortable.

"I could be generous, but I am not a charitable man," Ivan began to speak with a small smile on his lips. "Unless there is something I can profit from it."

Alfred narrowed his eyes, his nails biting into the wheel of cheese in his grip. His lips pursed and teeth grit together. It was almost harder to speak from this state. "And what would you want from us?" He and the other prisoners had absolutely nothing of worth. Nothing.

Ivan's smile curled, his eyes holding Alfred's form. When his eyes met Alfred's dull blues, the American watched something flash across the Russian's gaze. He wasn't quite sure what it was nor was he certain he wanted to know.

"Well," Ivan spoke up. "I don't ask for much."

Alfred felt his blood boil at the known suggestion. He didn't feel an ounce of regret when he let the wheel of cheese slip out of his hands and plummet to the ground to be soiled by mud and ice.

"I'm sorry, _sir_ , but I'm afraid we just don't have enough to offer you for any favor," Alfred bit out, his eyes narrowed with bright silent anger flashing through them and frown deepening.

Ivan's eyes looked down at the discarded gift before his facial features faded under a monotone expression. He looked at Alfred, all light of suggestion gone from his eyes.

"That is a shame indeed," he said. Alfred watched the Russian turn his gaze back to the shivering prisoners for a brief moment. "I wonder how long they will be able to live on what they're given."

"Know that when we die it'll be _your_ fault," Alfred made sure to remind the one who informed him that he could easily provide them with better food. The food the higher officers pig themselves out on.

"Would it really?" Ivan questioned. He spared one last look at Alfred and offered a seemingly pleasant smile before moving on his way and leaving him.

Alfred had wanted to say something in retort but the Russian was gone too fast. When he turned back to look at his miserable brothers he could already hear their dying moans begging for something to eat, some rest, anything to help them. Alfred felt his frustrated tears bubble in his eyes, and just to relieve his stress he stomped the damn cheese wheel as much as he could. But it wasn't enough and soon Alfred felt himself crying for his fellow inmates and for himself. He was so cold, so hungry, and so conflicted on what to do from there on out. He'd been given an option to help but it wasn't something Alfred could ever think to work with.

And so he tried to continue on to how he could and deal with the slow deaths and torment. It wasn't until Gilbert had fallen ill and came near death that his desperation drove him to do something he knew he'd regret for the rest of his life.

. . .

"You've got to help him, please!" Alfred begged the guards who would not let him anywhere close to Gilbert's fallen form. The man was running a fever and, without proper treatment, would be dead within the day. No one had expected a fever to be the end of the Prussian. All had waited for the chill of the season to bring about his finish when in fact something internal was completely unexpected.

"You wanted his misery to end? It will soon enough," one of the guards said and then pushed Alfred back.

The American fell onto his behind and stared up at the unmoving guards frowning down at him. He'd lost his hot water in the tumble and would have lamented about it hadn't his gaze continued to turn toward where Gilbert laid in the snow, shaking with the first tremors of death. No, he was miserable, Alfred knew it.

He couldn't; Alfred couldn't let Gilbert die like this.

With tears in his eyes, Alfred scrambled to his feet and ran off. He was so quick that the guards patrolling the main tent took a second to intake his presence when he dashed inside.

"Ivan!" Alfred cried out. He watched the higher officers turn to him. They had been looking at maps and trying to see if their radios had any signal. Alfred's entrance seemed to startle most, even Ivan looked at him curiously.

"Ivan, he's dying!" Alfred didn't want to cry in front of them, especially not in front of Braginsky, but he couldn't help the warm liquid leaking out of his eyes. "Please, please do something!" Anything, whether it be to shoot him or give him care, anything to put the Prussian out of his painful misery.

Alfred struggled against the guards that came in and bent his arms behind his back. He was forced to his knees and the familiar feeling of a gun barrel pressed to the back of his head while upset shouts in Russian resounded behind him. Alfred didn't care, all he cared about was easing Gilbert's pain, and the only one who had that kind of power was Lieutenant-Colonel Braginsky, unfortunately.

Alfred watched Ivan turn to the guards behind him and begin speaking with them. By the sound of their tone, they too seemed confused by the prisoner's pleas. So Ivan turned back toward Alfred, face stern and persona in command.

"Why are you here, Jones?" Ivan asked with a demanding tone.

"It's Gilbert," Alfred said, trembling before the soldiers. He was glad Ivan was one of the few Russians who knew English. The others looked lost in translation, and this was what he wanted, just to speak to Ivan, and from language barriers there was no other option but to converse alone with each other. "He . . . a fever took him and he's in pain. He needs help, please, he's served his sentence."

"That is for me to decide," Ivan stated before waving the guards to take Alfred back.

"Wait!" Alfred pulled against the men dragging him out of the tent. He managed to get one of his arms free. "I'll do anything!" Alfred swallowed hard, but he made sure he said it again so that he was clearly heard . . . as well as understood. "I'll do anything for you to help him!"

Alfred felt tears rise up when he watched Ivan hold his hand up to signal the guards to cease their struggle with him. He didn't say anything while the guards stilled nor while Alfred sank to his knees and wept pitifully.

With eyes closed tight and head bowed Alfred said in submission, "I'll do anything you want of me if you'll help him . . . please."

Alfred sat there in the intimidating silence. It all rode on Ivan's decision.

Inhaling a trembling breath and the snot leaking out of his nose, Alfred's ears caught sound of someone approach him and stop right before him. Looking up he saw it was Ivan. The man's face was hard to read, but when he rose his hand and curled his index finger toward himself it was an easy enough command to understand.

Ivan then moved out of the tent first. Alfred inhaled a deep breath and silently obeyed the Russian's command to follow him. He kept his head down while he walked behind the man, stepping in the same tracks Ivan made in the snow.

Alfred stopped momentarily when Ivan stood by his personal tent, pulling the flap up and stepping aside to allow Alfred entry first.

Alfred bit back his dread and stepped inside. Ivan followed him after and closed the tent behind.

Alfred had only taken a few steps inside and found himself surveying the tent Ivan slumbered in at night. It was a decent place—much better than any of the prisoners' accommodations. There was a cot with heavy blankets, tarp on the floor, a metal hearth off near the small desk that was laden with letters and other forms of parchment. A chest lay near the foot of the cot that no doubt kept Braginsky's clothes dry . . . what a nice feeling it must be to have dry clothing.

"You really must not be an American as you claim to be," Ivan then spoke up after a short silence. Alfred never turned to him however, he remained standing with his back toward him, too afraid to turn and face the decision he made. "You adore that man too much."

Alfred grit his teeth, shut his eyes and balled his fists. "He saved me from you. Of course I care for him," Alfred bit out. What he said could have been met with a harsh response, but Ivan seemed more amused than anything else, judging by the sound of his laughter.

"And yet it is because of him that you are forced into my arms. How funny, da?"

Alfred winced at the statement. It was true, and he swore if Gilbert was helped and saved he'd never tell him what he did for him.

Finally, Alfred turned toward the Russian. Ivan was just standing there, his arms crossed, and eyes on him. Alfred managed to look him in the eyes for a moment before his shame forced his gaze away.

"Are you going to help him now?" Alfred asked.

"Not until I am given reason to," Ivan stated.

The disregard in his tone infuriated Alfred. That man really could care less if Gilbert died—and perhaps Alfred as well.

Alfred narrowed his eyes and frowned. "No, I don't trust you. You give him care first!"

Ivan shook his head and "tsked." He finally came closer, walking up to Alfred so that now the young man had to look up at him.

"I do not care if you trust me or not." Ivan reached up and watched as his gloved knuckle slid down a trembling cheekbone. "You are not in charge of this deal, I am. Now . . ." Ivan's hand reached down and cupped Alfred's chin, forcing him to look up at him. "Give me my bribe."

Alfred tried to stop his bottom lip from quivering, but he couldn't. Instead he bowed his head and turned around. It took more will power than anything Alfred had ever used to command his fingers to begin unbuttoning his coat.

"I do not want to see back. Turn around."

Alfred froze for a moment at Ivan's command but slowly did as he was told. When he was facing the man Alfred managed to glance up at him once before his eyes decided to dart back to the task of his fingers. Ivan was watching him, standing tall and just observing Alfred undress himself.

Alfred began hating himself more now that he was exposed to the bastard Russian, but he already decided long ago that there was nothing he could do, that he had no power when reduced to this kind of a status under a supposed ally.

Tears slowly flittered down Alfred's cheeks when he shrugged himself out of his coat. It was a little hard to pull his shirt over his head from how sore and aching his arms were but he managed and when his trembling hands struggled with his belt he heard Ivan sigh.

"I can see you have been skipping your rations."

Alfred glanced up toward Ivan and noticed the man's eyes looking at his slim torso—definitely not what it used to be at the beginning of his enlistment. What struck Alfred as odd was that the Russian looked upset at seeing Alfred's skinnier figure. What did he care for?

Hard eyes met Alfred's confused blues when Ivan said, "The damn Prussian will get his own. Do not give away your food ever again."

Alfred couldn't believe what he was hearing. Right then Ivan had just confirmed Gilbert would receive food now. Did that mean . . . ?

Alfred nodded slowly. The statement helped Alfred's nerves to a certain extent, raising his hopes that he was pleasing Ivan in some sort of way. When he was finally bare Alfred wrapped his arms around himself and glanced away. He was still cold and standing like this in front of Ivan was completely humiliating.

"Go lay down," Ivan commanded with a nod of his head toward the cot.

Alfred did as told and laid himself down onto his belly. The cot was sturdy and soft with blankets of fleece and fur. Alfred would think he was in heaven laying on the bed if not for the situation at hand.

Alfred didn't want to look at Braginsky, but he could hear him moving around. Out of the corner of his eye he watched him take off his fur hat and set it down on his desk. While the Russian had his back turned to Alfred the boy watched him undress.

When his heavy coat came off Ivan set it on a hanger hooked to the top of the tent. He unwound his scarf with care and folded it neatly, placing the article of clothing on his desk. When his military jacket came off, Alfred took in the hue of the cream colored shirt he wore underneath. But when he took that off and revealed his back to Alfred's observing eyes, the American glanced away at the sight of nudity. Before he glanced away he noticed an array of scars and it was those curious markings that turned Alfred's gaze back toward Ivan's state of undress.

The Russian's back was broad and muscular, but the most intimidating thing about the sight of it had to be the lay of numerous scars painted over the expanse of pale skin. Alfred couldn't place what kind of weapons made such incursions, but he was certain it was horrible.

The sound of a zipper splitting shot Alfred's nerves and he turned his face away. His hands fisted the sheets and heartbeat deafened his ears when he heard footsteps fall close to him.

"Nyet, turn around."

Alfred looked back toward Ivan. He was leaning over him, stripped down to just undergarments. The man looked upset with Alfred's position.

"I want to see face, da?" Alfred felt himself trembling again when Ivan reached out and pressed the tips of his fingers against his cheek. It was interesting how gentle he was being when before . . . "Now, turn around."

Alfred didn't want to. He really didn't. He felt it would prove too uselessly personal for reasons and he didn't want it to be that way. Besides, the man only wanted one thing. He could still get it when Alfred laid out like this, so why did he have to be so demanding?

But Alfred had to listen and obey. So, quite stiffly, he turned around and settled into the cot under Ivan's watching eyes. He didn't like how the man stared at him, how freely he was expressing those emotions now that they were alone.

Alfred could take the evil eyes, the harsh glares, the cold stares, but those eyes on Ivan now . . . they frightened him more than anything he's witnessed before.

Alfred let out a small sound when Ivan leaned down toward his neck. The American had quickly shut his eyes and turned rigid. He felt no touch, only presence. Ivan was simply hovering his lips over the skin on Alfred's neck, the boy could feel it. Ivan had such cool breath that cascaded over him, making his skin prickle as if he were outside in the chilled day.

There were no words of the mouth nor pressure of touch. The Russian had yet to lay over him. When Alfred felt Ivan's hands reach down and run calloused palms over his arms it almost felt . . . comforting.

"I am not a bad bedmate, as you will soon find out," came Ivan's voice, assuring Alfred in a way that he would take care of him—if this handling could even be considered care. "So . . ." Those hands fell to his thighs and rubbed them just enough to grow them warmer. "Relax." Ivan's tone was softening in such a way Alfred wasn't used to. So his eyes had opened and gazed at the Russian currently running his hands over his body to generate warmth. When Alfred's eyes came to land on Ivan's gaze the Russian offered him a smile. "Spread legs." This command was gentler but in no less way did it lack authority.

Alfred obeyed and spread his thighs, though it seemed Ivan wanted them spread wider. The American winced when the Russian pulled his legs further apart. It wasn't like he could do the splits.

"You'll have to work a little harder if you want to please me," Ivan said with a smile.

Alfred quickly glanced away. He couldn't stand the sight of the Russian because of his shame, but his cool hands felt nice on his body, his touch much warmer than Alfred's ever known.

In a way Alfred was glad Ivan didn't try to kiss him. He didn't think he was that desirable to do so and knew he'd cringe away if the man tried. No, instead Ivan simply ran his hands over Alfred's offered body not just to feel but to warm.

It was interesting how Ivan made sure to raise Alfred's temperature firstly. Alfred wished he wouldn't. He wanted Ivan to just get it over with and be done with him.

It was from this long-held attention that Alfred finally opened his eyes and looked at Ivan. "What are you doing?" It didn't make sense to take this long. Gilbert was dying out there. Alfred didn't know how long he'd last.

"What I want," Ivan simply replied without so much as breaking his gaze traveling down Alfred's frame as his palms slid over his figure.

Alfred's breath hitched when Ivan finally grabbed hold of his cock. The warmer hand quickly enticed the organ to react to the touch. Already Alfred could feel his frozen blood pumping, making him hard in Braginsky's grasp.

Alfred wanted to tell Ivan to let him go. He didn't need to touch him there. He didn't need to stimulate him. The Russian just needed to hurry and fuck him so Gilbert could finally receive help.

"You need to relax," Ivan said, his grasp tightening for a moment before loosening and then repeating the same motion.

"What does it matter?" Alfred felt tears prick his eyes again. His lips were quivering and he was shaking again under the man. "Just . . . Just get it over with!"

He turned his head away again, closing his eyes to try to stop the flow of tears, but they came nevertheless. Alfred held his breath in the following moment of silence and stillness. Ivan had not moved nor pressed his touch to him. This made the young soldier tremble more.

Until the Russian reached forward and grasped his jaw, turning Alfred's face toward him for examination. Alfred must have looked absolutely miserable to Ivan, but Alfred couldn't help it because that was exactly how he felt.

Alfred's eyes shot open at the feel of lips upon his own. Ivan had leaned down and pressed his mouth to his in Alfred's moment of distraught. The American was quick to pull away, pressing himself further into the sheets to create some sort of distance even though it was a trapped retreat.

Ivan had said nothing, but he grasped Alfred's jaw harder and pulled him up to him by force. This kiss was bruising, much different than the first one. But Alfred kept his lips sealed. He didn't want this, he just wanted to turn away, let Ivan have his back and whatever else he wanted of him. He didn't need to kiss him as if they were lovers. They weren't.

Alfred's eyes clenched shut at the feel of Ivan's wet tongue slipping out and swiping over his lips. He would have continued this resist if Ivan hadn't pinched the joints of his jaw, forcing the American's mouth open to where Ivan could now press that thick wet muscle inside Alfred's mouth.

Alfred's first instinct was to bite. He didn't want Ivan inside his mouth, this wasn't the main thing the Russian wanted-right? But Alfred refrained. He knew that if he did bite Ivan then he'd risk the man backing out of their deal.

There was a deep gasp as Alfred's eyes shot open at the feel of something enter him—down _there_. Ivan had pressed a finger into him and Alfred groaned at the unsettling feeling.

There were no more words passed between them, not with their mouths unavailable to them and the preparation task at hand. Alfred had been mentally and physically prepared to hurt, to bleed when he made up his mind on whether or not to do this, so he held his cries to himself and submitted his body to what Ivan was doing to him. But he could not stop his tears falling down his face the more Ivan pressed into him and stretched him so unnaturally.

Alfred was taking two fingers now, scissoring him. It had been when the third entered that Ivan had pulled his mouth away. A string of saliva connected their heated orifices. Alfred was now contently warm from the flush.

Ivan had let go of the American's aching jaw then and reached between their pressed bodies. He grasped Alfred's penis again, instead of just squeezing him he began to stroke the hard phallus. Alfred's eyes fluttered closed at the feel and turned his face away.

He had not expected his body to arch from the way Ivan's fingers curled and rubbed inside him. Alfred's fingers clung to the blankets underneath him, hands trembling in their hold for some kind of support. He kept his gaze away. He didn't want to know what Ivan was doing to him, nor the reason as to why it felt so good.

Guilt began eating away in the recess of Alfred's stomach when his body quivered for the Russian to continue pleasuring him. He was . . . enjoying all of this.

Alfred jumped when he felt fingertips brush away the bangs covering his eyes. He opened his eyes then and looked up, noticing Ivan was looking at him with an amused expression. Alfred shivered when he watched the man leaned down and press a light kiss to his raised knee while simultaneously shoving his fingers deeper inside him.

Alfred bit his lips to quiet any sounds. He didn't know if they were cries or something else, but his own voice frightened him now. So he closed his eyes again so Ivan couldn't see the way they rolled in his head at the newly experienced bodily pleasure.

Alfred's breathing picked up when he felt the Russian's fingers rub the head of his dick, smearing something wet over it. Alfred hated how hard he was now as well as how lightly Ivan touched him. More so, Alfred hated how his body began to respond to the teased pleasure it had been tempted with; hips began to roll and buck, legs began to spread a little wider, and spine began to bend, arching in such a shameful way.

It had been when the hands and fingers left him altogether that Alfred began feeling regretful and cold. He had brought his arms up to conceal some bared skin to the chilly temperatures around and shivered. Their shared bodily heat was gone; Ivan had pulled away from him, and Alfred opened his eyes to find out why.

There the Russian was, sitting on the edge of the cot and lifting open the chest at the base of the bed. He pulled some sort of flask out. He sat with his back to Alfred and minded a task of his own.

Alfred watched him open the small bottle and pour some sort of liquid onto his hands. The scent was strong and it seemed to engulf the entire air around the tent. Alfred didn't ask him what it was, but held still and watched.

Alfred might have assumed the Russian to simply jack himself off if his strokes weren't ceased in a few passes time. The flask was returned and the chest shut before Ivan shifted and returned to Alfred to lay atop him, between his legs.

Alfred swallowed hard at the feel of something press against him again, something much larger than the Russian's fingers. He jumped when Ivan took hold and propped his thighs on his hips, holding him there while he pressed his . . . his . . .

"Ah!" Alfred had tried to keep his cries to himself, but Ivan was rather large. Though, he seemed to slide into him much easier than the fingers that had pressed into him earlier due to the oil Ivan had lathered himself in, the Russian was a size bigger than Alfred felt would no less tear him in half.

"I-It hurts!" Alfred cried out. His hands reached forward and grasped for purchase on anything to hold. His clutch found Ivan and clung to him as the man penetrated him.

"Of course," Ivan said after a moment. He was still working on sliding into the American. His hand pressing against Alfred's wet cheek was somewhat of an appreciated sort of comfort. "Is why I told you to relax."

Alfred's forehead pressed against Ivan's sternum as he bit his lip until he felt blood dripping down his chin. His legs tried to close but Ivan's hips prevented them from moving anywhere with his form settled between his thighs.

"I-I can't. I can't!" Alfred gasped out. The pain was unbearable and he simply couldn't . . . what? Relax? Continue on? Perhaps a little of it all.

Alfred was full on bawling when Ivan finally stilled himself, finally settled himself completely into the American and just waited . . . why?

His arms were wrapped around Ivan's neck with his dirty nails digging into pale skin. Alfred's face was pressed directly into Ivan's sternum to hide tears and the pain in his facial features. He hadn't even noticed Ivan had become still for a few moments, and that he was tolerating Alfred's cries and trembles and tight constriction. It had been when his sobs began breaking into wet hiccups that Ivan had moved. The Russian reached up and pulled to unwrap Alfred's arms from around his neck, easing Alfred back down into the blankets underneath.

With grit teeth and closed eyes leaking streams, Alfred was certain he didn't look at all desirable, yet he still felt Ivan's light touch on his chin, the man's thumb wiping at something warm.

"I told you to relax." Alfred opened his eyes after realizing the tone sounded upset and made out Ivan's bleary form through his tear-filled eyes. Now that his vision cleared he noticed the Russian's upset was over him biting his lip. Alfred was absolutely baffled by the show of care and only stared up at Ivan with confused eyes as the man took a part of a blanket and wiped Alfred's blood from off of his chin.

Once Alfred's face was clear of tear streaks and blood Ivan seemed somewhat more satisfied. The Russian reached up and brushed the hair clinging to Alfred's forehead once more. His eyes seemed to examine Alfred a moment before he placed his hands near the boy's shoulders and leaned his torso away.

Alfred's breath hitched when Ivan moved. It was a slow movement at first. He simply pulled back a little ways, letting his manhood slip out of Alfred's body a few inches. It was when he bucked his hips forward that Alfred tensed in its descent into him. The feeling was weird and in no way natural. Alfred found himself reaching down to cling to the blankets underneath them for something to hold onto . . . something other than Braginsky.

While there was still a dull ache in his ass, Alfred was finally managing with the penetration. The girth of Ivan inside him didn't feel as horrible as it did in the beginning, and from this Alfred loosened. Ivan seemed to have understood this and took advantage of it by picking up pace just a little more.

The friction between the both of them generated a pleasing warmth both equally desired in this cold climate. It's been a while since Alfred remembered ever being this warm. It'd been so long that he's nearly forgotten, and so he was subconsciously pushing closer just to try to awake the memory of sun rays warming his skin.

The heat in his groin blazed the hottest. It almost ached enough for it to be a discomfort. Alfred groaned at the feel of it, his head tossing back and forth in agony of a feeling so unfamiliar, so uncomfortable, and yet so pleasant all at once. It wasn't right for the bubbling in his belly to feel so good, for Alfred to reach some point of satisfaction in this. This was wrong, and Alfred was only doing this for Gilbert and so refused his arms from their longing to wrap around the man violating him to bring him closer to his body just to have him . . . closer.

The silence around them was soon disturbed by near quiet grunts and groans, pitched in tone. Even light, Alfred's ears rung with their sound. He took notice of Ivan's grunts more so than his own because they were timed with his thrusts into him. The deeper they resounded the more Ivan pressed into him. When they were heavy with gasping breath Alfred knew it was because Ivan had a hard time moving.

One of the hands near Alfred's shoulders moved and slapped against his hip, holding it steady for the Russian to move easier. Alfred could feel himself stretching the further Ivan descended into him. With each thrust the force behind it drove Ivan's cock deeper into Alfred's depths, stretching tight muscle and claiming virgin territory.

Alfred's lips twisted at the feel of it. Being stretched felt so different than the other feelings upon his body. It was something Alfred just couldn't explain, but knew he never wanted to experience again for guilt's sake.

Alfred let out a grunt when Ivan lowered himself to rest on his elbow, this brought the Russian that much closer to him, chest to chest. Ivan's abdomen rolled with each thrust, rubbing Alfred's stomach and brushing those soft golden sensitive pubic hairs clustered downward.

Alfred's own cock was stuck between their bodies, shot upward. The movement of their closely pressed forms enticed it to swell and stand proudly. Alfred could feel its heat and the juices it leaked and plastered onto both their bodies in a controversial way.

They were so close Alfred could feel the rumbles vibrating inside Ivan's chest that rebounded inside his own ribcage. Alfred opened his eyes at the feel of it and chanced a glance toward Ivan. One look and Alfred was now staring at the man who was staring at him back. The Russian had a satisfied smile on his lips as he rocked into Alfred. His eyelids fluttered when he pressed in particularly deeper only for Alfred to arch at the jolts of electric pleasure shooting up his spine and settling into his skull to give him a euphoric high.

Alfred had let out a sigh when he settled into the blankets after a sensory ignition. The sigh sounded pleased and the flush on his face looked far more accepting than his will and pride would like.

Alfred hated the way Ivan looked down at him as he used his body. The man looked too pleased, too sure of himself, and too amused. He knew he won, and he knew he was the only one coming out of this with something gained.

Ivan hummed out a moan and gave his hips a wide roll, brushing inside Alfred just the right way to make the American arch into him and open his mouth wide. Alfred didn't grant any pleasurable sound out of his mouth like Ivan would have liked, but his facial expressions were delicious to observe.

The violet eyes held still to intake the shift in Alfred's expression when the Russian reached down and gripped the boy's manhood, giving it a firm squeeze before stroking the shaft in time with his thrusts. Alfred groaned in hate of himself for absolutely enjoying the multiple pleasure points that were being abused on his body. His whimpers sounded too needy, his body arched not in pain but in bliss. The American wasn't supposed to enjoy this horrid act one bit, but . . .

"P-Please . . ." Alfred's throat clenched with a thick swallow and it was in that pause that he wasn't certain on what he was supposed to have said. Please what? Stop touching him? Help him reach his orgasmic high? What?

Alfred felt sick to his stomach with the more knotting he felt grow inside him, a fine rope ready to snap.

It was a very experienced hand movement running along his cock and an equally timed thrust pressing the hot, long rod inside him that tripped Alfred over the edge. His eyes widened in horror when he watched the red head of his cock shoot out semen, flowing down Ivan's still gripping hand and throbbing out squirts of the bodily juices seemingly in time with Ivan's long deep thrusts. The American's entire body trembled with the rush of his orgasm and his anal muscles clenched tight enough at the feel of his release to slow Ivan's movement just slightly.

Alfred felt ashamed for losing control of himself like that and cumming for . . . for . . . _this_. His eyes closed and he turned his head away in self-hate. It was the touch of Ivan's palm pressing against his cheek that had the boy's eyes opening and looking at the Russian as he goaded him to watch him complete.

Ivan grinned in a victorious kind of way when he came. His chin tilted up and eyes closed to bask in the feel of his release. Alfred cringed at the feel of it, unknowingly tightening around the cock inside. Ivan hummed at the sensation washing over himself, rocking into Alfred to ride out his sexual bliss.

And then, Ivan stilled. He continue to lay just above Alfred, supported by locked arms. He seemed to catch his breath, continually keep his eyes on Alfred. The American could no longer look at him and all he wanted was for his Russian captor to get off of him and to just . . . move away.

Ivan hummed once more before he stretched himself back and pulled out of Alfred. The American shuttered at the feel of Ivan's lubricated penis slipping out of him, but even more so at the feel of the man's seed rushing out and dripping out of his painfully stretched hole. Alfred had to swallow the bile rushing up his esophagus to keep appearance before the Russian.

Instead Alfred stilled himself and ignored the aches beginning to make themselves known throughout his body. He could hear Ivan moving around and with one glance Alfred noticed he was changing back into his clothing. He said nothing to Alfred and after dressed his monotonous expression began to worry Alfred. He didn't look particularly pleased nor did he look upset.

While Alfred knew he'd continue to hate himself for what he did . . . for what he gave of himself, he worried for Gilbert and hoped that Ivan would uphold their deal. But Ivan said nothing. He simply slipped his jacket back onto himself and placed on his hat.

Ivan took one last glance back toward Alfred still laying paralyzed on his cot. He offered no final word nor expression for a deciphered response. He simply turned away and left, just left Alfred there without a certain answer.

It had been while Ivan had just left and Alfred laid in the cot that the American began feeling the dread of his actions and the wretched hate for himself. Placing his hand over his mouth Alfred tried to keep himself from vomiting. Instead he cried, utterly sobbed to himself.


	3. Quid Pro Quo

Gilbert knew he had contracted a fever. He had known it was inside him, even before what little strength he had in his body faded and he had fallen over in the snow. He honestly had expected his end to be from him freezing to death, but thanks to Alfred sneaking him warm water and his rations Gilbert managed to make it a lot longer than he thought he could. Of course with the fever he knew for certain he was going to die.

Yet again he'd been proven wrong.

Gilbert hadn't expected to open his eyes again, but he had. He was inside the medic tent, laying on a cot and underneath numerous warm blankets. He could still feel the remnants of the sickness inside him slowly disappearing. His red eyes landed on the doctor. He knew the man, and knew he didn't like the prisoners very much. This had to have been an order. No Russian would have cared for one less prisoner to watch and feed.

"Hey." Gilbert turned his gaze toward the familiar voice. It was Alfred. The American had come inside the tent and noticed the Prussian's conscious form. Immediately he was by Gilbert's side.

"Are you okay?"

Gilbert groaned. His throat was raw and he wasn't certain he could speak too well so he relied on simple nods and expressions to answer Alfred's questions. It was fine like this and Alfred didn't seem to mind the lack of vocal confirmation.

Alfred visited regularly. Gilbert was surprised the doctor allowed the American prisoner entry so often, especially when he had other sick patients—Russian patients—to see. But without fail Alfred seemed to come and check on Gilbert's recovery status. The Prussian knew when he healed it'd be back to the misery of the prison barracks for him, but he was really just surprisingly glad to be alive.

Even though he enjoyed the cot and reluctant care, Gilbert was finally glad to be getting out of that tent. Surrounded by so many sick Russians was bad for his health. Alfred was there of course to help him dress for the weather outside and to get him onto his feet. After his strength had been zapped due to various reasons it was a little hard to finally stand back up again.

"Danke," Gilbert replied to Alfred's offer of his frame as support. "It was nice being here, but, honestly, I'd rather be back with the boys instead of sleep away in here."

"Yeah," Alfred agreed with a short smile. "Your men have missed you. They're really loyal."

"Of course they are," Gilbert gloated with a straightened posture for emphasis. "They are German."

Gilbert grinned when he heard Alfred snicker. It was the closest thing he got to a laugh and he enjoyed it. Alfred didn't laugh as much since Braginsky had assaulted him. And the boy had such a nice laugh too.

"I still can't believe they didn't just let me die." Gilbert chuckled to himself when Alfred led him out of the tent toward the prison section. Was it so wrong that he sort of wanted to die? "I mean, they're Russians. Maybe this is just some kind of sick torture." It could in fact be.

There was still a chance Gilbert could die later from other causes than a high fever. Well, maybe they'd get lucky and some Schutzstaffel regiment would find and rescue them. It was highly unlikely, but it was a nice thing to dream of.

"They can be reasoned with . . . sometimes." When Alfred muttered this it was barely heard, but Gilbert managed to catch it and so rose a brow at the statement.

"Is that so? You talked to them?" Gilbert questioned. Alfred would answer him but he wasn't looking the Prussian in the eyes. Gilbert knew all too well reasons why one would avoid such contact.

Alfred shrugged. "I couldn't let you die, Gilbert. I owed you."

Gilbert's frown began setting in and worry arose inside his gut. "It would have been better had you left me alone." To die would have been sweet release from this prolonged icy hell.

"You were in pain, what else did you think I would do?" Alfred's tone was higher as his words rushed with the undertones of frustration. He was looking at Gilbert now, his eyes wider but still such an awful shade of dull blue. There'd been no mental healing while Gilbert was incarcerated.

"Alfred, what did you do?" Gilbert didn't think Alfred or the others could offer anything of worth for his life much less try to smooth talk the damn Russian soldiers.

"I . . ." Alfred's jaw closed. Gilbert watched the boy's Adam's apple bob. He was nervous. Why? "I spoke with Ivan about helping you."

"Braginsky?!" Gilbert stopped. They were closer to the prisoner fires and his raised tone no doubt alerted a few of their fellow inmates to their sudden odds with one another. Pulling away from Alfred so he could hold his own form while they argued, Gilbert literally gawked at what Alfred told him. "Why did you go to him? What were you thinking, Alfred?" There was no way it was _that_ Russian that ordered he be cared for in his fever. It was him whom placed Gilbert in isolation in the first place.

"He was the only one who had any power over what happened to you," Alfred reasoned.

"How did you get him to help me?" Gilbert's narrowed eyes caught the sight of Alfred's gaze darting down. He was ashamed. "What did you say to him, what could you have possibly given him?"

When Gilbert reached out to touch the boy, Alfred had darted back. The Prussian felt his heart sink. He'd already been given answer enough.

"You didn't . . ." Gilbert didn't want to believe the possibility. "Alfred . . ."

The American looked so sad when he turned his eyes finally to Gilbert. He didn't hold his gaze for long though. "He . . . wouldn't take anything less."

Gott . . .

"Alfred why would you . . .?" Gilbert tried to reach out to him again, but Alfred kept his distance from him. Suddenly Gilbert felt upset, mostly with himself since it was his poor health that drove the American boy to do something so blasted stupid like that. "What were you thinking?! You shouldn't have done that!"

"Just let it go, Gilbert," Alfred bade.

"Nein! You can't just expect for me to accept what you did!" Gilbert bellowed back.

"You're going to have to because it's already over. Now just . . . stop . . . okay."

Gilbert wasn't entirely sure if he was seeing moisture sheen in Alfred's eyes or not, but he didn't have long to observe it when Alfred turned from him and wandered off. The Prussian now absolutely loathed himself. His sense of self-worth taking a hard beating and he doubted it would ever rise again.

But Gilbert promised himself to watch over Alfred more so than he had before. Praying that Alfred would never find himself in that kind of situation again.

But with how they lived; the opportunity to abuse would rise again.

* * *

Alfred couldn't stop his tears when the guards came and took two frozen corpses away to throw into the mass grave over by the eastern side of the encampment. They were two of his fellow countrymen, two American soldiers who died wrongly . . . like so many others would if this situation wasn't corrected. It was just too much of a tragedy for Alfred to take anymore.

When the weather got worse the men froze to death, when the atmosphere cleared rations were cut down to near minimum that men starved to death from lack of nourishment.

Alfred wasn't the only prisoner who knew the Russians could spare more portions. The scent of their cooked meals wafted over the encampment every day, sending despair into every hunger-stricken captive. Many went mad from this kind of torture and those who did often didn't survive for very long after their mental bearings were lost.

On days when the sun broke through the heavy snow clouds it had become a time of entertainment for the Russian soldiers. Many would sit near the prisoner section during their meal breaks and tease the prisoners in hopes to get them to humor them with obeyed commands of any sort. It was humiliating, what many of them asked for. Bark like dogs, hop around in a circle on one foot, be a human stool, the antics never ended and Alfred was sick of them because it showed how desperate he and the other prisoners really were.

This day was the same. The sun was out and the winds had died down enough that being outside wasn't that much of a hazard. So came the Russians to sit and eat the food the prisoners couldn't have and amuse themselves on their desperation to get the scraps.

The bastards all laughed at those prisoners hoping to appease. Some were even cruel enough to offer their bits but decline the silent deal at the very end. Alfred hated it all and couldn't stand to look at the taunting soldiers who amused themselves on their misery. Having Braginsky there helped keep Alfred's gaze away from the pompous group even more.

But he couldn't look away for long when the frustrating sounds of disappointment resounded from prisoners trying their best to please their captors for some food when the Russian soldiers simply denied them.

"Just give them the food!"

Alfred's demand quieted some soldiers despite many of their lack of knowledge for his language, Lieutenant-colonel Braginsky was quite good with English, however, and so paid close attention to Alfred's protests.

"Can't you see they're starving? They did what you wanted so give them what they worked for." Alfred was pleased to see the men slowly drop their scraps to the crouching prisoners. He also caught sound of some nasty-toned words in Russian, many of the soldiers no doubt retorting against Alfred's remark.

One of the begging prisoners was indeed Alfred's roommate. He had been ecstatic about getting something to fill his empty belly. He even showed his gratitude by returning back to where Alfred sat by one of the fires and offering him a piece of the scrap. But Alfred would have none of it and simply turned his head away from the offered morsel.

"You should take what's offered to you, Alfred," came Ivan's words that made Alfred ball his fists currently out of sight. "He worked hard to get that. In fact, his impression of a gorilla was star quality." When Ivan's laughter resounded so too had the other Russian soldiers' laughter.

Alfred sighed. He's had to deal with this downgrading laughter from them for too long. Turning to his bedmate he motioned for him to just eat what he was given and from there on, proceeded in ignoring the damn Russians.

"You know, I have just enough leftovers for you here, Alfred."

The American narrowed his eyes and glared toward Ivan who sat with his men holding his plate up to show the boy. Alfred would have none of the man's shit.

"I'd be willing to offer if you entertain me," Ivan explained with a snarky smile.

Alfred internally gagged at the man and turned face, keeping his gaze on the fire instead. But Ivan seemed to understand the cold shoulder and so continued to pursue his own entertainment.

"I was joking," Ivan spoke up with a chuckle. "Was funny, da?" Everyone, prisoner and captor alike, knew that Alfred was the most bullheaded prisoner in the camp and so to mess with him, no matter your status, took some skill to do. "Nyet, I will give you them without asking anything of you. You just need to come here and take them."

Alfred didn't want anything Ivan would offer him, knowing that there was always something he wanted in return.

"Come," Ivan encouraged, presenting Alfred's sight the food still on his plate.

Everyone was waiting on Alfred, wondering if he would take up the offer. If he wouldn't then there were plenty of other starving souls who gladly would.

Gilbert was close as well, seated with his men at a nearby fire, listening and observing the scene unfolding. He didn't like it how Ivan kept trying to interact with Alfred when he clearly didn't need to. He's had his "fun" with the boy, what did that bastard want now?

"Come," Ivan said once again. The tone seemed pleasant enough as had his inviting smile, but everyone there knew that if Lieutenant-Colonel Braginsky had to repeat himself then he was meant to be obeyed.

Alfred sat there for a moment, making everyone around him uncomfortable with his lack of submission to command. Gilbert could even tell the Russian soldiers seated near Ivan were unsettled, not necessarily for Alfred but for the violent temper that Braginsky was known to show every once and a while.

Eventually Alfred stood up and came closer to him. He didn't look happy at all, holding his displeased frown even when Ivan held that not-so-innocent smile. When the American came close enough he said nothing, not even extended his hand to receive the food.

The twisting curl in Ivan's smile alerted the Prussian that he was playing around with his command. He certainly made that fact known when he shoved the offered food between his teeth and jutted his jaw out.

"Go ahead, take it." The offer was still there but the humor in the situation lessoned the stress around the commander and so his men seated around him burst into loud laughter and mocked the American standing in their midst.

Gilbert frowned at the tease and did not act surprised when he watched Alfred roll his eyes and then walk off. Ivan's laughter had caused himself to spit out the food he had braced between his teeth and chime in with his men about how entertaining the pathetic prisoners were.

Sometimes Gilbert wished he didn't know that damn Slavic language so he could remain ignorant of their crude comments. Even though Ivan joined in with his men to make fun of the prisoners, Gilbert never once heard the Russian commander mention anything about Alfred, which Gilbert was glad for.

After so many stupid words Gilbert decided to up and leave his men to make sure Alfred was fairing fine. He wouldn't have been inclined if it wasn't for the known tensions between the American and Braginsky. Alfred was a strong boy, physically and mentally, but after what he gave up to help save Gilbert's life . . . the boy's demons seem to make it so he'd never be able to stand against Ivan again.

When Gilbert found Alfred the boy wasn't alone. Ivan was with him.

The Prussian hadn't even noticed the man's absence among his men, tuning out their horrendous remarks long before he decided to get up and search for Alfred, so of course he hadn't noticed when Braginsky took his leave.

But now there he was, holding onto Alfred in between the tent wires, his tongue shoved deeply down the American's throat.

Gilbert about sprang into action and landed himself in isolation again. The sight of Alfred's struggle to move his body out of the Russian's hold infuriated Gilbert. Ivan was a selfish bastard, he already had gotten what he wanted out of the boy and yet Gilbert finds him continuing to have him in his embrace. No, he wouldn't stand for that at all.

Gilbert stopped before he intervened when he observed Alfred finally break hold and ram his palm against Ivan's face. Alfred looked flustered and beyond upset. Ivan looked eternally amused. He was even quiet when Alfred turned heel and darted off while furiously rubbing his mouth.

Gilbert made sure to hide himself away from Ivan's gaze, but the Russian wasn't even looking around to find if anyone had observed the scene. They were between tents where not even the patrol guards bothered looking near. No, Ivan kept his gaze on Alfred's retreating form, a growing smug smile turning his lips upward as he brought his fingers to his mouth to caress his lips as if reveling in the feel of Alfred's mouth on his own. Gilbert felt sick at the sight of it, but he remained hidden near just to make sure the Russian didn't pursue Alfred. He didn't. Ivan just chuckled to himself, turned and walked back toward the main tenting where the Russian brigade resided.

Gilbert really didn't know what to do about this. While he wanted to guard the boy from such harassment he knew that he couldn't do much when it came from Braginsky. He was glad the man didn't outwardly pursue Alfred's use. It really was up to Alfred's decision alone to determine if their dealing would continue.

With the harsh battery of the winter season and the abuse from Russian soldiers it deftly wasn't long before Alfred sought out the Soviet Lieutenant-Colonel again.

* * *

"They're dying of starvation."

Ivan hummed almost too pleasantly and offered a smile for the prisoner who had the only right to glare at him like that.

It was snowing heavily that day and a majority of the patrol guards were huddled inside tents to wait out the downpour, so it was no surprise on how Alfred managed to find Ivan all the way into the main tenting section. Though, the older really wished he'd come to him when he was alone, one less command to give his confused men seated around him.

"Food is scarce. I must feed my men firstly," Ivan reasoned while leaning back in his chair. He could feel the odd stares from his men around, all wondering why their commander put up with this certain prisoner's antics. But it was just so much fun showing what he could offer Jones only to have him inevitably give in. The boy's strong will was so entertaining to break.

"That's bullshit!" Alfred looked out of breath and weak. His cheeks, ears, and nose were red from the cold temperatures. Ivan had offered him warmer blankets, larger rations of food but the boy refused them time and time again. Now that he was here, seeking out Ivan's help, the Russian knew he wouldn't be able to refuse his treatments anymore.

Ivan only grinned at Alfred's response to his statement while the other Russian soldiers frowned at the rude tone. Ivan simply rose his hand and silently commanded them to leave. They seemed reluctant for a moment before doing as Ivan said like good loyal men.

Ivan held Alfred's gaze while the men exited the tent. Once they were gone, Ivan jutted his jaw in gesturing command. "Close the flap."

Alfred was more reluctant than the Russian soldiers to obey Ivan's command but slowly he did as told. Once they were out of the sight of watching eyes, Ivan eased a little bit more in his chair.

"So what do you want of me, Alfred?" Ivan watched in amusement as the boy cringed at the way he purred out his name. Didn't matter. Ivan could say Alfred's name however he wished to.

"Just . . . don't let them die," Alfred begged. His head bowed and eyes closed. Ivan very much liked this newfound submission in the boy.

"Such a considerate savior you are to them," Ivan said with mock praise. "But know that even saving heroes fail if they cannot accomplish agreement. In the end it all rides on me, doesn't it." Ivan's smile turned into a smirk. "I am not convinced enough to help those I do not want to. Are you going to give me a reason to?"

The nervousness in the prisoner made Ivan want to laugh. Alfred looked absolutely reluctant. His body was stiff and his eyes never met the Russian's watchful gaze. So much easier to handle now.

"W-What would you want?" Alfred's words even came out of his throat harder than necessary, his body more focused on swallowing than forming words.

Ivan's smile broadened. He was glad Alfred was coming to the terms of his decision making and how Ivan would have nothing else but this.

"Convince me," Ivan simply replied, looking too comfortable in his chair. He blinked when he watched Alfred reach down to begin unbuttoning that damn German coat he had on. "Ah." Alfred looked up at him with confusion. Ivan offered a relaxed smile. "I do not need that . . . yet," Ivan added. He then spread his legs in silent hint as to what he wished for then. "All I need right now is your mouth. Come."

Alfred's reluctance was cute but in no way wanted. The teen eventually came closer to him and just stood there looking at him as if he didn't know what to do or where to start. Ivan would say no more, but his eyes did keep looking at Alfred before casting his gaze down to his own groin to silently show the direction he wanted the prisoner to descend upon.

The shaking hands pulling his zipper down was an annoyance and Ivan gave wariness to the way the zipper was undone. He didn't want Alfred's poorly stabled hands to shift and catch him. That would hurt and he wouldn't be quite happy at all.

Once his fly was opened Alfred stood there a moment, just looking at his crotch, a blank stare sheeting across his eyes. Ivan was about to order him to continue, but Alfred came to his senses sooner. The boy reached into Ivan's under garments and pulled out his sizable cock.

The Russian grinned while he observed Alfred take in the size and shape of his manhood. He wondered what was going through his head right then. Perhaps he was coming into his usual pity over the situation he's landed himself in, perhaps he was remembering the time he laid in Ivan's bed and took all of this into his body. Ivan mentally chuckled at that. It'd be funny to hear Alfred's baffle over managing to fit such a well-endowed organ into him.

Even with his amusing thoughts, Ivan was growing uncomfortable. It was a cold day. The tents offered protection from the winds and snow but not the temperature, and so he didn't appreciate having his dick out for any amount of time in this chilling atmosphere. He only uncovered himself for two reasons; and that was to piss or engulf it in warmth, the latter of which he was waiting for right now.

Ivan let out a sigh through his nostrils when Alfred finally began to stroke him. The movement was slow and less than skilled and Ivan wasn't too fond of Alfred's cold red hand rubbing him, but he was patient, he let the boy manage the feel of him firstly so he could get used to this. In a sense Ivan was training Alfred to meet his needs, and _only_ his.

Soon enough Ivan grew tired of Alfred's inexperienced strokes. They did little to stimulate him, but knew that even if the boy was lacking in pleasuring him via mouth, Ivan could still manage a better rise than this. So, he smacked Alfred's hand away and looked the boy in the eyes, silently commanding his next move.

The prisoner looked like he was struggling with himself to obey Ivan's demand and for a moment the Russian wondered if Alfred would suddenly turn and leave him like this. He'd better not. Ivan would make sure the prisoner would receive a punishment worse than he's ever been dealt to teach him a lesson.

Ivan was pleased however when Alfred sank to his knees and placed his hands on Ivan's thighs. The Russian shivered when he felt the boy's warm breath cascade over his cock. The feel of it elicited a pleased twitch from the organ, encouraging more blood to flow into its arch to help it stiffen.

The hum rumbling out of Ivan's throat came about when Alfred wrapped his lips around the head. Ivan allowed the boy to set his own pace, but in the end the prisoner would take all of him into his mouth. There was to be no other way.

Feeling Alfred suck was relaxing, and Ivan made sure to get comfortable in his chair. A frown did paint his features when Alfred pulled his mouth away from the phallus head. Ivan looked down at the boy to figure why he had pulled away, but his smile returned in kind when he watched the teen press slow—probably unsure—kisses against the side of the dickhead and then trailed his lips down the shaft. While Ivan wanted engulfing wet warmth, he was temporarily pleased with how Alfred lavished him with kisses.

When the kisses reached the base of the organ, Alfred trailed back up the shaft with his tongue before popping the head back into his mouth. Ivan could feel himself beginning to throb. It was nice.

It did seem, however, that Alfred was not keen with taking more of Ivan's cock into his mouth, and that just wouldn't do. So Ivan reached out and pressed his palm against the back of Alfred's head to encourage him to sink further down while gently pushing forward with his hips. A little more of Ivan's cock slipped into Alfred's mouth but not enough to startle the boy nor satisfy Ivan's desire.

Blue eyes flicked up toward Ivan, and the Russian stared back, letting his want show itself through visual gaze. It wasn't long after the shared eye contact that Ivan felt Alfred press down further on him. It took some time, but the boy was swallowing quite a bit of the shaft. Ivan was impressed.

He knew it wouldn't goad either of them along in this process; and so Ivan kept himself restrained from bucking into that warm moist mouth. He continued to hum out moans to let Alfred know he was pleasing him, his hand in Alfred's locks continued to pet and card fingers through that gold head. Yes, Ivan was certain he could train Alfred to please him substantially.

Alfred would take a large amount of Ivan into his mouth and hold him there before pulling back to catch his breath and try again. He'd get a little further the next time he descended onto him, but Ivan simply couldn't understand the lack of suction.

"Suck," he commanded the boy with a tighter grip in Alfred's hair. Alfred had stilled for a moment before he began to suck. Ivan's frown didn't relent. "Nyet, you suckle like a newborn babe on their mother's tit. I want movement." Ivan then pulled Alfred's head back by the hair, pulling his mouth back off of the cock until only Alfred's lips remained but around the head. Ivan then pushed him back down, easing the recently taken inches back into the prisoner's mouth. "Like that," Ivan bade breathlessly.

He kept his hand gripping the hair on the back of Alfred's head, but he did not need to guide the boy any longer. Alfred was a quick learner and quickly picked up Ivan's ideal rhythm.

The sound of Ivan's soft sighs and the audible gulps and slurps Alfred was making echoed across the empty space inside the tent. The temperature was even rising, Ivan could feel it.

"Mmm, you are doing well," Ivan mentioned, his gripping hand now returned to petting the boy's head in show of approval. Ivan's had better head, but this wasn't so bad for Alfred's first time. He knew that mouth of his was good for other things besides shouting out nonsense and obscurities.

When Ivan felt Alfred trying to pull back, his other hand joined the one petting the boy's locks. This time Ivan held the boy's head still, kept him there and his cock embedded into his mouth.

"Nyet, you can keep up," Ivan said. He could feel the slight pulls from Alfred. The prisoner was trying to pull away politely, but Ivan would have none of that. "Through the nose, Jones." Ivan smiled when he felt Alfred relax in his grip and the suction continue. "There, like that."

Alfred still hadn't taken all of Ivan into his mouth, but he was making up for it in suction. Ivan could feel himself beginning to swell, hm, at least Alfred was good enough to bring him to completion.

"Do you feel that, shlyukha?" Ivan hummed when he allowed his hips a small buck just to let more of himself sink into Alfred's mouth so that he could feel his swell. The boy gulped a little louder and moaned at the feel of the organ expand his jaw to near ache. "It means I'm very, _very_ close."

Ivan smiled almost affectionately as he ran his fingers through Alfred's hair. He had such fine hair, and Ivan was more than a little annoyed of the way his fingers ran into knots and dirt, as well as the way the locks stuck to Alfred's forehead at times. Ivan pulled the boy's bangs back to look at those eyes.

"You could pull away if you want," Ivan offered. He preferred ejaculating inside, but this time he'd let the prisoner decide. Wasn't Ivan considerate? "Or, you could please me by staying still and taking my gratitude." Ivan watched Alfred's eyes flick up toward him. There was struggle in those irises, and Ivan wanted to laugh at the sight of it.

In the end Alfred tried to stay still when Ivan came. He managed for a moment, but the second Ivan released hold of his hair he was pulling and darting back, Ivan's semen dripping past his lips and off his chin while he coughed and choked. Ivan simply relaxed into his chair, reveling in the feel of his orgasm. It didn't last as long as he would have liked, but it wasn't unsatisfying. The sound of Alfred's gags brought him back to the world around him and now he was looking down at the boy who remained hunched over on the ground, spitting out what he could and rubbing his mouth furiously with the sleeve of his coat.

Ivan sighed and leisurely put himself back into his pants, zipped and buckled himself properly. After situated, he sat and watched Alfred catch his bearings on the floor. It amused Ivan to no end.

He waited until Alfred was finished stabilizing himself. He left the boy to his quiet, but when he finally spoke up, of course Ivan predicted the topic of his statement.

"You'll give them food, right?" Alfred turned his face just enough for Ivan to catch slight tears in those blue eyes. "You promised."

Ivan grinned and leaned forward. Oh, his entertainment in this winter limbo would never cease now. "I don't remember promising you anything," Ivan stated. "My decision all depended on you satisfying me enough." The look in Alfred's eyes was something to stare at. The way those blue orbs glistened with tears of guilt was just too good. Ivan let his decision ride in the air before he leaned back with a nod. "You did well enough. I am a man of my word and will see to it that the rations are doubled."

And Ivan did.

The next day the prisoners had thought they had died and gone to heaven when their rations doubled and three set meals were ordered to be placed for them. Alfred had in fact received more and better quality food than his fellow inmates, but he declined the offered food and took the same rations as everyone else. Only those mentally healthy enough grew curious as to the sudden change in prison diet, and Gilbert was one of them. He didn't say anything but his eyes were on Alfred, watching him and checking for any signs of bodily harm. He hadn't caught anything out of the ordinary until their Russian captors suddenly graced the prisoners with thicker Russian coats, which saved many a prisoner from their soon-to-be frozen deaths.

Alfred was sporting a limp when the coats were handed out and it didn't take the Prussian long to discover what the American had done—and was doing.

"Ah! What the hell, Gilbert?!" Alfred gawked when the Prussian had pulled him away before he headed toward his tent for the night. Now it was just the two of them for a private conversation in the cold night air.

"Why?" Gilbert bit out, his hands curled into Alfred's thick jacket, shaking the boy despite the obvious discomfort he was in from the visible winces. "Why are you doing this?!" The Prussian wanted to be sick and just toss off the Russian coats they had been given for better insulation, especially after figuring out how the Russian commander was convinced to give them the coats.

Alfred immediately put up his defenses and smacked the albino's hands away. The American frowned and wouldn't look at Gilbert anymore. "Why else? To save all of you."

Gilbert shook his head with disbelief despite already knowing the truth. "Nein, nein, you should know we'd all rather die than for you . . . for you . . ." Gilbert grit his teeth to suppress a growl, he could feel his anger rising inside him over this disgusting wrong. "Damn it, Alfred, you have to stop this!"

"I will!" Alfred swore. His eyes were on Gilbert now, the look in them was honest, and the Prussian believed him for a moment . . . until that jaded blue gaze glanced downward. "But after I make sure you all can survive the winter."

Alfred had sworn this to Gilbert and to himself, but he was growing tired of bending over backwards to please Ivan into helping the pitiful prisoners. The doubled rations hadn't lasted. When the warm blankets given tattered they were not replaced. Prisoners were still dying and Alfred was sick of seeing his fellow brother fall in this hell.

After Ivan's cock slipped out of Alfred's throat, the American struggled just to swallow the orgasm shot down his esophagus. The bile in his stomach rose up and made it difficult to swallow instead of wrench.

Ivan sighed, a satisfied smile on his lips. They were in his tent for privacy, meeting in the main section of the camp was growing too cumbersome, and Ivan would rather his men not disturb him. So there the Russian commander sat in his desk chair, steadying his breath while his cock hung out of his pants. If Alfred caught another rise then it was highly likely Ivan would next want him on his back with legs spread.

No, Alfred wasn't going to take this anymore.

"Your fellow prisoners with illnesses will be treated tomorrow," Ivan promised. "Anyone who perishes in the night . . . oh well, less captives to care for."

Alfred rubbed at the joint of his jaws. They ached more so now that he learned how to deep throat and keep the position. His frown deepened when hearing Ivan's words. This shouldn't surprise him though, the Russian's never cared for Alfred's fellows, never.

"And what about our rations?" Alfred inquired.

Ivan looked toward the boy and sighed, resting his hands on his lap. "Do you plan on giving me another bribe for that?" The Russian grinned and cupped his penis suggestively, both knew it wouldn't take long for him to harden again.

Alfred shuddered at what was said and tried to use his anger and upset to press him on. "Haven't I given you enough?" Alfred's eye lids fluttered at the sting in his eyes. "Why do I have to keep getting on my knees for you just to continue to get help?"

Ivan chuckled. "It's because you look good on your knees."

When the Russian leaned forward to press his face close to Alfred, the boy had turned his head. He couldn't stand the sight of the man any longer. Ivan only chuckled again before leaning back in his chair and sighing.

"You know the deal, Fredka," Ivan chided while he tucked himself back into his pants. "For my help I require special services, of which you have been managing for the sake of your commander and comrades."

Why wasn't it enough? Alfred's done whatever Ivan has wanted. If the Russian wanted him to get down on his knees and orally pleasure him then Alfred would, if the Russian wanted Alfred to spread his legs then Alfred did as told. It wasn't fair that he had to continue this humiliation.

"What then?" Alfred began. He had to settle his state because he knew he was making an eternal deal with the devil himself. "What then do you want for you to continue providing for us?"

Alfred's eyes were averted and so he didn't see the curl in Ivan's victorious smirk.

"Look at me, Alfred."

Alfred didn't want to. He refused, but when Ivan so ordered him do this once more his dull blue eyes turned toward the Russian. Ivan looked ever amused and quite curious as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.

"What do you think I want? Ivan questioned.

"I don't know," Alfred said, turning his face away again. "Apparently I'm not enough."

"Da," Ivan confirmed which made Alfred then wonder if he'd ever been enough for these sort of negotiations. "What you give me is never enough. What I want is you in my bed every night until I so bid you leave, I want you to eat the food I give you. I do not wish to bed a skeleton. I want you to bathe and put on clothing I grace you with. I want you to obey only me and the things I ask for. Is not much for protecting your brothers in arms, da, Jones?"

No, it wasn't much for the life of the rest of the prisoners, but for Alfred, it was his entire life. But he had no choice but to agree.

Alfred didn't say anything verbally, just merely nodded his head. Ivan grinned with content and then stood up. He opened the flap of his tent and motioned for Alfred's departure.

"Well then you best wish your farewell to your bedmate as of now. I want you laying in my bed from this night on."


	4. Privileged but still a Prisoner

Alfred felt utter dread when he left Ivan and made his way back to the prison section. He'd been allowed to go to and fro due to Ivan's orders and from the look on the Russian guards' faces, they all knew why.

When night fell the deeper dread set into Alfred's body. He didn't know why he was so apprehensive about this, he had been doing these submissions for a while now and this should not prove to be any different. But, perhaps it was the fact that Alfred felt as if he was selling the last free will of his soul to Braginsky. He knew that after tonight—for however long he'd remain captive here—he'd be Ivan's slave and that is what was making him sick as he walked over toward Ivan's tent in the night.

For a long while Alfred just stood outside of the tent. He could no longer force his body to continue this abuse. He simply couldn't.

There was a warmth within the tent, the hearth heating coals. That was the only thing that enticed him inside. When he entered he came into a scene of Ivan stirring a steaming bowl of water. The shift of the tent and sudden chill alerted the Russian of Alfred's presence.

Ivan stood up from the chair he was seated on and then motioned Alfred closer. "Come and sit."

Again Alfred hesitated but in time he made his way to the seat.

"Strip," came another of Ivan's commands.

And Alfred obeyed, his stiff arms reaching up to unbutton his coat. The warmth within the tent slowly took effect on his chilled body, but Ivan didn't seem to mind his sluggish movement and waited too patiently for the prisoner to disrobe.

When Alfred finally lay bare he watched Ivan pick up his discarded clothing and toss them in a hammock. Alfred wondered if he'd ever see those rags again.

The touch of a warm wet cloth settling on his back not only made Alfred's tense muscles relax, but the feeling of something so divinely hot on his skin set off a pleased sigh. There were no words exchanged except simple commands. Ivan set out to clean Alfred, rubbing his dirtied skin nearly raw with the warm rag. Alfred really couldn't remember being this clean since before he was deployed. It felt nice.

The bowl of warm water was now dark black when Ivan finally put the soiled rag back into it. He then turned and reached over to a draped fabric hanging off his desk. It was a robe of which he wrapped Alfred in.

Honestly, Alfred hadn't expected any kind of treatment such as this. But he gladly wrapped the warmed article of clothing around himself and reveled in the feeling of being clean and warm again after so long of going without these luxuries.

The next order presented to him was in the form of a plate that Ivan had taken from his desk. Alfred had thought it was the Lieutenant-colonel's meal for the night but now that Alfred got a better look at the dish he noticed how it hadn't been touched. It had been for Alfred.

"Eat what you can," Ivan so ordered when he shoved the plate into Alfred's hands.

The dish was still warm and already Alfred could feel his stomach grumble in want to be filled and his mouth begin to water at the enticing sight. It smelled so good that Alfred felt a sting in his eyes that he had to blink away.

He had remained still for a moment after understanding how many chances to eat like this he had previously gotten but declined. Now he had promised to obey Braginsky, and so, despite his convictions and previous stubbornness, had to eat.

Alfred's hand shook from weakness when he grasped the fork to dig into the meat and boiled vegetables. His grip was so unstable that he couldn't properly lift up a morsel and so, at the sound of Ivan's sigh, the Russian reached out and took the dishware out of Alfred's hand as well as the utensil. He stabbed a soft vegetable first and then offered it to the boy.

When Alfred opened his mouth he understood that even his jaw ached with pain, and he couldn't open his mouth as wide as he wished, but if his oral width had been enough to please Ivan's cock then it was enough to swallow simple offered vegetables.

The greens tasted so good in his mouth that tears welled in Alfred's eyes. It took him a while to chew it properly before swallowing. The food went down well but in no way satisfied his hunger. So he sat there being fed by Ivan.

Alfred was famished and wished to eat the entire plate, but Ivan pulled it away from him before he had the chance of clearing every offered item placed thereon and set the half-eaten plate aside much to the American's disappointment.

"Nyet," Ivan began when he took hold of Alfred's hands and pulled him to his feet before leading him to bed. "Your small stomach cannot hold too much. We'll gradually add more protein to your diet. It will please me immensely to see your form fuller. Ivan had pressed his hand against Alfred's side as if to show Alfred how thin he was. The American didn't used to have a dip in his waist, but from lack of food he really was coming to look more like a skeleton.

After feeling Ivan's lips press down on the revealed bare skin of his shoulder Alfred wondered if he should have kept this stick-figure like form. Maybe then Ivan wouldn't be so attracted to him. But then who else would entice the Lieutenant-colonel's attention to the dying prisoners?

Alfred shivered when Braginsky slipped the robe off of his torso, sliding the garb down his arms while those Russian lips planted soft and gentle kisses across cleaned and taut skin. Alfred simply sat there, taking all of Ivan's desires of him. His heavy blue eyes stared off into nothing in particular, but when they focused they seemed drawn to the burning coals in the Russian's small iron hearth. The sight and feel of them was a comfort and it is what he kept his eyes on when Ivan eventually pulled the robe off of him completely and set his hands all over the expanse of his bared body. Alfred never broke contact with those heated cracking rocks, his eyes did flutter when he felt Braginsky press his fingers to intimate and sensitive areas, but after Alfred evened his breathing he opened his eyes and held his gaze on the coals. His eyes even turned, following the form of the hearth while Ivan pressed him stomach down into the cushioned cot. The only other time he broke visual contact with the heated hearth and its burning contents was when Ivan entered him.

Alfred's eyes slid shut from the initial pain and held glued together as tears seeped out, sticking to his eyelashes before sliding down his once clean cheeks. No matter how many times; Alfred had never grown used to the penetration and pressed his face into the cushions and blankets to muffle any cries of pain that he knew Ivan detested. When the pain began to recede and Alfred could feel his body rock against the bed, he turned his head back toward the view of the hearth. His face was wet with bodily moisture, and eyes still red from the sting of his tears, but he held his gaze on those coals, watching how they cracked and crumbled under the temperature.

Alfred felt akin to the jagged rocks; already he could feel his body heating, the internal temperature amplified due to the one demanding the raise of his body. In time even the slivers of subtle cracks could be felt in Alfred's being. His hands grasped the sheets he laid on, pulling and tugging while his teeth grit and his breathing labored.

Alfred moaned out, his eyes fluttering when he felt the Russian's hands grip his hips harder, pulling his pelvis back toward his rocking thrusts in such a way as to bury his member deeper. The American's thighs shook from the motion, his knees threatening to buckle and collapse if not for Ivan's steadying balancing grip he clung to him with.

While Alfred tried to focus on his own breathing, trying to drown out and make himself deaf to the other sounds in the tent, the Russian pressed closer, his pale lips but a breath away from the shell of his red ear so to make Alfred listen to his grunts and heavy pants. Alfred tried to hold his gaze on the hearth, but his eyes slid shut when Ivan leaned down over him. The American could just _feel_ Ivan's satisfied grin. He could even understand his thoughts right now, and he knew the Russian was reveling in his victory over Alfred's pride and will.

A few tears bubbled up in the corner of his eyes at what Alfred had done, but he made no attempt to flee his new position. Instead he bore Ivan's weight on his back, and bit his lips to deal with the pain of his body stretching around the man's girth. It had been when Ivan took a hold of his bobbing cock that his blue eyes slid open and his vision was met with the image of the fiery hearth and disintegrating coals. They were crumbling into smaller pieces now and Alfred broke down along with them. They popped and snapped, cracking under the intense heat, and just then Alfred felt himself do the same.

He cried out in such a way he'd never be proud of and sealed his eyes again as his vision turned white and he came undone in the Russian's hand, his body tightening around the throbbing shaft inside him, giving it enough stimulation to release its held-in build. Alfred came down from his orgasm only to feel the final squirts of Ivan's ejaculation as he rocked the remainder of his pleasure into Alfred's body.

The man pulled out immediately once the drawn out pleasure faded. Alfred was finally able to take in a proper breath while he lay still, knowing that if he moved then he'd evoke the pain numbing his senses at the moment. Instead he wished to keep his eyes on the charred coals, however, his eyes constantly moved toward the other living being in the room, just watching the way Ivan cleaned himself and then dressed in new clothing before moving toward his desk and taking up papers, writing down whatever he may on them. Alfred watched him for a while, taking in his sitting posture, the curved movement of his hand as he wrote in lettering Alfred would never understand, and the silver flask near that hand which he'd occasionally take up to sip.

Alfred didn't know if he was supposed to feel hate for the man or remorse for himself. The confusion tired his mind and soon his eyes slid shut, his body relaxing mostly from the hearth and the warm sheets he was surrounded in. Alfred's never had such a nice night's sleep since getting captured by either party.

* * *

Gilbert knew he wasn't the only one who began noticing the subtle changes. His scarlet eyes weren't the only ones taking in Alfred's fuller figure. He watched him eat his meals along with the rest of them—which could hardly be considered scraps—but, even still, Alfred was putting on the pounds everyone dreamed of gaining.

Not only was his figure filling out through the weeks, but Gilbert noticed his attire had changed. The tattered German coat was once all Alfred had to shield himself from the frigid temperatures, but now Gilbert saw him in brand new Russian insulated coats. He looked warm in them. When their Russian captures eventually handed out spare coats to save the prisoners from freezing to death during the harshest weeks they still weren't the best of coats, no, Alfred was wearing the clothing of the Russian officers, and Gilbert knew that it likely came straight out of Braginsky's wardrobe.

Alfred also appeared cleaner. While the rest of the prisoners were covered in dirt and grime and their own excrements, Alfred was clear skinned, even a pleasant odor seemed to waft over him, though Gilbert refused to refer to Braginsky's scent as anything but pleasant, especially given the situation.

The American never slept in the prisoner section anymore, Gilbert found this out by interrogating his tent mate. The man gave the Prussian a set time of when Alfred no longer showed up to sleep the freezing night away with him. And it was to Gilbert's discovery that the young American soldier snuck back into the prisoner encampment in the early hours of the morning. The Prussian had stayed up one night and waited for the boy to make his appearance to verify his nightly scheduling.

It was a shame Alfred neglected nights spent there. His bedmate ended up freezing to death one morning and when Gilbert looked for the guilt in Alfred he only found the boy gone, again.

Gilbert wasn't stupid, and neither were the rest of the prisoners still surviving this ordeal. They all knew Alfred had completely submitted himself to Braginsky and now spent his nights in his bed. It was sickening and sad on what became of Alfred. No one talked to him about it when he stood in the ranks of the prisoners or sat near the fires to keep warm during the heavy snowfall. And he certainly didn't bring up the topic. In fact he'd become more of a recluse than anything else; he wouldn't meet eye contact or talk for long with anyone wishing to strike a conversation with him.

When the Russians came out to play with the pitiful prisoners Alfred was now seen near the seat of Lieutenant-colonel Braginsky like some goddamn obedient dog. Gilbert hated the site of it. He hated seeing Ivan's smug expression and the way his hand rested on various controversial sections of Alfred's being that he shouldn't be touching and that Alfred shouldn't allow him to touch. But Alfred never said anything, and continued to ignore the protesting glares from his fellow inmates.

Gilbert hated that all were so pitiful that Alfred had to do this for them. But he couldn't do anything else to change to boy's mind. It was just . . . if Gilbert could then he'd gladly take Alfred's place, but he knew better; Braginsky would have no one else besides Jones.

He could only hope that his brother had received his distress signal and was just a kilometer away, too waiting out the dreary season to come and rescue them. If he did, or some other miracle occurred to free them from these damn Slavs, then Gilbert would definitely take the Americans with them. He knew that he and his people would treat them much better than their ungrateful and ignorant allies. And assuredly, Gilbert would march right in to Braginsky's tent and take Alfred right out of that bastard's bed when that day came.

But perhaps Gilbert's wish would come true without the aid of a bloodbath.

* * *

It was finally spring, really only the first week. The snowfall seemed much more gentle and everyone looked forward to the day it faded altogether. It wouldn't be long now before the Russians could move and get into range of a radio current or a town.

There was a small hope for clearance in their situation for the American prisoners. But as for Alfred, he wasn't sure what to think of their hopeful relief. Ivan hadn't particularly treated him bad, and while he didn't like the position he had lowered himself in, he knew that Ivan had rightfully taken care of him. Alfred wasn't hurting from hunger pains anymore, he wasn't hollowing at the cheeks, he wasn't covered from head to toe in soar blisters or forced to wear a piss-soaked coat that was really nothing but tatters. Alfred had the privilege of enjoying full hearty meals, and sleeping next to burning coals . . . and that of a warm body.

Alfred wouldn't say he was grateful for his predicament and what it did to save his life from the possibility of turning into a human icicle, but he acknowledged them in his mind and so said nothing to Ivan's seemingly nice treatment. However, lately, the two have been less intimate. Alfred wasn't one to bring it up but he had noticed how little Ivan was touching him or at least pulling him to his side for a kiss. Alfred had wondered if the man had grown bored of him, uninterested in keeping him as a little human toy. In a way it unsettled Alfred and he became afraid of the Russian setting his eyes upon another unfortunate soul.

It was not jealousy that had Alfred in a worry. He would gladly return to his comrades and die of starvation and mistreatment with them, though, now, after all he's done, Alfred no longer felt himself worthy to fall upon the graves of those persevering men. He'd become such a shame to himself and the boys that Alfred knew he'd rather kill himself than get the chance to face his superiors when they could.

All in all Alfred did not want anyone else to sustain the amount of mental torture and abuse that he had willfully accepted. And so Alfred had to know of the reasons for the distance.

Ivan never said anything to Alfred's continual return to his bed at night, but there were some nights where Alfred was met with silence and would remain that way until he fell asleep. Those were odd nights and horribly unsettling, more so because Alfred couldn't decide if he was worried over the silence or concerned that Ivan wasn't speaking to him.

"If you have grown bored of me then I can stop spending the nights in your bed." Again, Alfred was conflicted with whether that prospect was a good thing or not. He wouldn't have to perform his whorish duties anymore if Ivan let him go, but then Alfred would no longer have the luxury of the warmth, comfort, and nourishment that he got when he posed as Ivan's bitch.

He hadn't been looking at Braginsky, believing that the man didn't want him staring while he sat and sifted through reports of their ration percentage, but Alfred did catch the sound of the wrinkling of paper halt, notifying him that Ivan had stilled in his movements. And so when Alfred turned his eyes toward the Russian he could clearly see he wasn't too happy.

The way he shifted in his chair and pursed his lips, giving Alfred a cynical look, let the American know that he had upset him in some way.

Those violet eyes eventually turned back to the papers and Ivan began sifting through them again. The previous care for what Alfred had said earlier seemed to have just vanished, or so Alfred thought.

"Did I command you to abandon your duties?" Came Ivan's questioning response, his tone always laced with authority and demand.

Alfred chortled at the notion of calling what he did "duties", as if he were still perceived a soldier just serving his goddamn country and obeying his bastard of a superior officer.

"No," Alfred answered softly. His fingers played with the blankets lain about his lap while he sat on Ivan's cot. He had yet to lay his head down because of the growing unease in his disturbed spirit.

"Then what makes you think you can just abandon your position?" Ivan hummed out, leaning back in his chair.

"Because it is pointless for me just to sleep here." Alfred looked at Braginsky again. He knew the man didn't like being talked back to, but Alfred's unsettlement was tormenting him, and comfortable warm bed or not he would not be able to sleep with this internal turmoil.

Violet eyes glanced toward Alfred again, but this time a humorous grin replaced his displeased frown. "Oh? I didn't know you enjoyed sleeping in the ice. However, I would rather a warm body keep me comfortable at night. So, I will not allow you to return to that pathetic excuse of a bed."

"But I'm supposed to be there," Alfred reminded. He was supposed to be suffering with his men, dying just like them.

A hard sigh escaped the Russian as he slapped his papers down onto his desk. He turned around completely, moving his chair so that he sat frontal with Alfred.

"Have you forgotten your fealty to me?" Ivan questioned, narrowing his eyes to try to figure out what was wrong with his prison lover. "If you fail to meet my quota there will be consequences."

Alfred chewed on the inside of his bottom lip. He wanted to say more but help his tongue, though, his reddening face was giving away his internal confliction. To the American's surprise the Russian had figured him out. Instantly a smile eased Braginsky's frown and he stood up, coming toward where Alfred sat on the side of his cot and then stopped right before him. He reached out, the pads of his fingers encircling Alfred's full face, tilting his head a little more upwards toward him.

Alfred wanted to shake his hands away, or bite those fingers. He didn't like the horrid gentleness Ivan treated him with. He wasn't Ivan's lover, he wasn't even something as highly regarded as a fuck-boy. Alfred was trash, unadulterated pitiful trash.

So his gaze would fall from any who stared into his irises. The shame just continued to eat away at him.

"Look at me, Alfred," Ivan commanded.

Alfred could feel his fingers tug at his jaw only slightly, but not enough to jerk his face upward. Ivan left it up to Alfred to tilt his head back and obey, and he did. Alfred's eyes met Ivan's and there laid a silence between them before Alfred couldn't stand Ivan's treatment.

"Not every night do I succumb to that consuming internal flame," Ivan spoke up, trying to hold eye contact with Alfred despite the boy trying to glance away. "I am content with your presence here, whether in silence or conversation. The form and feel of your body when I lay myself down to sleep is enough to sedate me for the next evening."

Ivan didn't go out of his way to blatantly state Alfred wasn't useless, but he did subtly hint on Alfred's still redeeming value in his eyes. And now Alfred felt his gut churn oddly. Was he happy now he knew Ivan hadn't grown bored of him, or was his twisting stomach motioning something else? Whatever it was was forgotten when Ivan leaned down and pressed his lips to Alfred's mouth. The American's eyes fluttered shut and he willingly laid back, his fingers grasping the fabric of Ivan's sleeves to pull him over himself. Ivan followed the lead of his tug and crawled over Alfred.

They made love that night . . . actually, Alfred wasn't sure if he should call their act that since he didn't believe he loved the man, and he didn't believe the Russian loved him either. More overly the term "making love" was just a code for Alfred when mentioning the more gentler rounds of their sex. Alfred didn't like having to spread himself for Braginsky but that didn't mean there were not times that he could honestly admit to himself that he enjoyed their time under the sheets. This was one such sexual session that Alfred found himself moving against, tossing his head back, arching into expert touch, and moaning so immorally that his conscience had nothing to say.

The warmth of Ivan's body acted as a better comfort than even the heated hearth. Alfred decided he would deal with his guilt the next day, but even as the days passed and times of droughted intimacy occurred, Alfred was still assured by the curl of Ivan's finger ordering him to come closer to him and grace him with a kiss, by the sight of two plates Ivan now presented so the two may dine together in a relaxing atmosphere when Alfred arrived in Braginsky's lodging tent for the evening.

The confusion started to swell in Alfred then. He wasn't sure if he was forcing himself to enjoy this out of necessity, or that he was slowly degrading into the wretch he knew he'd turn into and losing his conscience. He found himself speaking longer with Ivan than his fellow brothers in arms. He found himself staring into the man's eyes more. He caught the sight of his skin prickle at the notion and, dare he say, excitement to come and touch the Russian.

Alfred's confusion took a peak during a meal when Ivan had placed his hands on his hips and Alfred situated each knee on the side of the Russian's legs while the man remained seated in his chair. Alfred and Ivan had locked lips through the entire act as Ivan penetrated him and Alfred moved himself, rolling his hips on his lap. Alfred couldn't honestly remember if Ivan had so ordered he move from his seat and come and pleasure him, or if he had in fact acted on his own wants and desires.

After that night Alfred had felt the last of his sanity cracking and he did all he could to keep hold of it. In a sense he was glad for their lack of intimacy afterwards and began looking forward to the halting of the snowfall.

But, the very moment the snow stopped and the ice began showing signs of thawing, something went wrong.

Alfred came into Ivan's tent as he had been doing for a while now. He could already smell their food and his spoiled stomach growled in anticipation for the meal. The American quickly relinquished the smile he felt on his lips before entering the tent. Ivan was sitting at his desk as the sight had been becoming habitual. Alfred saw him visibly shiver when he had let a cool breeze inside.

"Close the flap and eat," Ivan commanded, not much room for retort in the order. Alfred did as told and took up his plate and utensils. He noticed his was the only food to be seen.

"Have you already eaten?" Alfred questioned. Ivan's been dining with Alfred for a long time, why the sudden change?

"I'm not hungry today," Ivan said, continuing to scribble away.

Alfred didn't say anymore. It was yet another silent night and so when Alfred's eyelids began to droop he crawled into bed and fell asleep. He was only awoken when he felt Ivan crawl into bed next to him, except Alfred could feel the man shivering. He's never felt so much as a tremble in the Russian before that it made Alfred open his eyes and look at Ivan.

He looked pale—paler than usual, and the touch of his skin felt warm. In fact he was burning despite shaking like he'd been left out in the ice and chill bare naked.

"Ivan?" Alfred pressed his hand to his forehead and felt the rise of heat against sweaty clammy skin.

"Quiet," came his hushed command, his tone softer now from the laboring breaths he was taking. "Just lay beside me. Is a cold night."

Ivan wanted complete obedience, Alfred knew this, but the sound of the man's sickly wheezes startled the American. He jumped out of bed and tried to coax the commander to head over to the medical tent. Ivan continued to shake his head and demand Alfred just lay next to him to share warmth, but he grew weaker by the struggle and soon enough he couldn't open his eyes any longer.

Alfred couldn't let Ivan fall victim to a fever. He knew that if Braginsky passed away then the wretched lower ranking officers would take command of this regiment and Alfred could not have that. He knew they wouldn't give a damn about what happened to the prisoners, not that Ivan particularly concerned himself with the POWs wellbeing, but Alfred at least knew he had a sort of influence over Braginsky, the others, not likely.

And so Alfred hooked his hands under Ivan's arms and hauled him to the doctor. The man didn't look happy being woken up nor too pleased seeing a prisoner drag in their ill-stricken commanding officer. Alfred admitted that it didn't look good on his part and it was reasonable for the man to jab him away with his grabbed gun and hold Alfred at bay with his arms up until soldiers arrived to take Alfred back to the prisoner section.

There were no privileges when Braginsky wasn't well enough to remind them, and, without his watchful gaze, Alfred returned to the lowly status of wretched war prisoner, ally mistaken for a hated German.

He'd been planted face-first in the snow when the soldiers deposited him off at the prisoner encampment. They laughed when they walked away, leaving Alfred to pull himself up off the hardening snow, pressing fingers to his nose and mouth only to notice the small color of red on his fingertips from where he had bit his lip in the tumble. He said nothing about it and only stood back up, minding his tongue and manner.

Now within the perimeters of the prisoner section Alfred's nose wrinkled at the smell of death. The previous scent of dinner forgotten from his nostrils and putrid discrepancy met him, but this was where Alfred belonged and he would not argue that he was taken to the wrong holding.

He marched toward the fires, his cold sweat from before now chilling his body despite his well-dressed state. Like usual; he did not meet gazes. He could feel his fellow inmates' stares, but didn't so much as move to acknowledge them. Instead, he kept close to the fires with his only thought on the condition of Braginsky and the uncertainty of his well-being.

Alfred's conscience kept telling him that he had done all he could for his men and the Germans they shared misery alongside. He sacrificed a lot to save many of the boys, but the possibility of Braginsky falling to a fever and another reining in command only to see to the worthless prisoners' demise unsettled Alfred and made him feel more useless than he already did; as if all he had done, the hell he went through, was for nothing. The upset turned into confusion and ate away at Alfred's spirit so much that a deep depression settled upon him and now all he could hope for was his own death so to save him the misery of seeing how he had failed his comrades.

His mood was felt, and his current reputation and attitude concerning it kept most prisoners away, but that did not mean they did not see him and the misery he made for himself. They had all heard the news of Ivan's fall into illness and many rejoiced, hoping the perceived heartless man perished from the fever and burned in the deepest circle of hell for what he had put them all through, but mostly they wished this punishment upon him because of the torment he dealt their fellow inmate Alfred. The young American was once their sunshine and hope to be optimistic, but ever since that man had spirited him away Alfred's smiles ceased, his laughter died, and spirit failed him. No, they wanted Braginsky to pay for tearing up his soul like that, and so they all prayed for his death.

It had been Gilbert who threw away the care for Alfred's inverted demeanor and approached him. He sat down on the log next to him, his own eyes gazing into the blazing fire. When the silence seemed it would not relinquish its hold on the atmosphere, Gilbert broke it down.

"I hope the bastard gets what's coming to him," Gilbert spoke up without a damn care for their Russian commander.

Gilbert caught sight of Alfred glance his way, but for the most part he turned his eyes downward, seemingly more interested in his twiddling fingers.

"Won't you be happy when you're free of him?" Gilbert turned toward Alfred so that even if the American looked at him out of the corner of his eye he could see that Gilbert was addressing him. But, as expected, Alfred said nothing to the remark and hopeful thinking. "The snow is thawing, Alfred. Spring is finally here and once the Russians have a proper radio frequency then they can clarify your status."

That would be nice; to finally see fellow American regiments than having to deal with these horrible European blunders. Alfred knew for certain that this would reach Eisenhower's ears and that he'd very much likely march up to Moscow and strangle Stalin himself. It was a nice mental image, but one that just wasn't swell enough to make Alfred laugh. Nothing about the situation they were in was funny, which certainly explained why the boys praised the fever that took Ivan down. But they didn't see what Alfred saw, and now it seemed he was the only one afraid for Ivan's health simply because he was afraid for their lives.

At least that's what Alfred kept telling himself.


	5. Unhealthy Desire

Days had passed without a word on the commander's condition. Alfred kept his ears open, but he lacked the knowledge of the Russian language. While with Ivan he had learned a few words, but so far, all he's gotten out of eavesdropping on the chatting guards was something about Ivan still being sick and watched over daily by the doctor. Fevers usually broke or triumphed within a few days so Alfred continued to concern himself over the situation and their possible future.

The nights were cold when the winds picked up and reminded Alfred of his prisoner status with each chill that swept through his body. Gilbert had recently lost a bedmate from an infection and had been the only one who braved enough courage to word his want that Alfred spent the night with a companion. Alfred didn't complain to his new bedmate and of course missed all of the relieved expressions from the others, glad that he would no longer risk freezing to death in the night. But the nights began growing warmer and in time Alfred wouldn't need the heat Gilbert offered from his body.

Even still, when the warmer winds swept over the land and began turning the ice into slush, spirits heightened and the Russians became their cruelest while the freedom of warmer days allowed them the higher enthusiasm to do so.

Alfred had just waited in line for his portion of the rations they handed out. He noticed the cutback in prison meals only a few days after Ivan fell ill. The portions were back to near nil and only served twice a day. It's been a little over a week since Ivan fell into illness and now the prisoners were served their meals once a day. The quality of the food waned as well, not that Alfred was surprised. He knew his days of eating the officers' food would come to an end, but that didn't mean he cared for losing a few pounds, he had plenty to spare since Ivan filled his figure to his liking, it was the other men who couldn't afford to lose a single ounce of their body mass.

But, without Braginsky keening his ears to his cries in particular, no one would listen to the dying starving moans of the prisoners. So Alfred kept quiet like the others, thinking he'd been integrated back into the malnourished cattle. But Alfred had been wrong.

He was making his way toward the fires with his only bowl of gruel in hand for the day. As he took a short cut through the tent wiring he hadn't expected to suddenly get himself grabbed, the sharp pull made him lose his grip and so he dropped his only meal. He'd been tugged along closer toward the patrolmen tents, not inside, but near. There were three men, they had their guns slung on their backs and eyes on Alfred even as he struggled to get out of their grasps.

"Get the hell off me!"

The soldiers did nothing but laugh, saying things to themselves in a language Alfred didn't understand. But the American understood their intentions with him when they began tugging on his coat, seeking to pop off the buttons, when they reached out and pinched his well-rounded cheeks, when they tugged his hair downward as if trying to pull him to his knees. Just because Alfred understood the meaning behind all of these motions did not mean he'd conform to them. So he struggled against their hold, used what strength he could to save himself from their dark plots.

His struggling seemed to amuse the men and his attempt to get away only earned him a fist to the gut. The breath left his lungs and his knees knocked together before buckling, forcing the rest of the weight of his body to collapse. He wasn't left alone to wallow in his pain for long. Tugging fingers gripped his hair and pulled him back up to his knees. And so, in Alfred's time of recovery from the punch he decided to press hard glares upon all of the Russians.

He didn't like it though, Alfred didn't like the looks on their faces and the way they grinned down at him. His eyes widened when he watched one of the soldiers reach down to his belt and tug the buckle loose. Alfred's struggles started again but a kick to the ribcage shook his entire body and nearly make him puke. The lower portion of rations had made him weaker to admit and just so weary.

Tears beaded in Alfred's eyes over his lack of strength to properly defend himself. He wanted to call out for help, knowing that his fellow Americans or even Gilbert would gladly come to his side and defend him even against these soldiers, but he knew they were farther away from the prisoners and if Alfred cried out he'd likely attract more patrol soldiers. He didn't want them to see him like him, or worse, join in.

"You should be more cooperative."

Alfred's teary eyes darted up to the Russian soldier in front of him. He remembered this man was one of the few who knew English—the language the "supposed" German spies would only speak. But this man used his knowledge of the language to berate Alfred and the other Americans they continually called Germans. He was never a nice man, and either were the other two dimwits with him.

"You think Lieutenant-colonel Braginsky only trained you to please him?" Alfred grit his teeth when the man reached forward and pulled his jaw out, pulling the American's face closer to the man's crotch. "Nyet, he did so to gift you to us."

The other men laughed, tightening their hold on Alfred in anticipation. But Alfred only locked his limbs and sealed his jaw shut. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction in having an easy time with him.

Alfred's breath caught in his throat when the man reached forward and bit his fingers into his cheeks, trying to get him to open his mouth.

"Open mouth," the soldier insisted. "You have no right to defy us."

Ivan was no longer commanding who and who did not touch him and so Alfred should have suspected something like this would happen. He didn't know why he thought he'd be left alone after his release from Braginsky when the rest of the camp knew of his previous purpose.

With enough pressure the soldier forced Alfred's jaw open, but the American moved so quickly that he'd sunk his straight teeth into the man's hand. That earned him a palm to the face that made his ear ring. When Alfred's senses cleared it was dually noted that he currently had a cock pressing against his lips.

"Open," the soldier continued.

Alfred continually refused, even when they pressed in his cheeks again. He could hear the frustrated cursing of the Russians before the one who knew better English said, "When Braginsky is gone you will have to please us all the time, so might as well get used to it now."

Alfred didn't know why he let what they said get to him. The sweeping emotion of—Alfred wasn't sure what he was feeling in that moment—loosed the American and Alfred's mouth was enabled to be pried open for the damn grunt to shove his penis past his lips. Alfred wanted to gag on the shaft and would have threatened to bite the damn thing off if he wasn't in such a downward spiritual press. His thoughts went over what they said again and again until the image and—was it fear?—of Ivan dying. He knew it'd been a while since he fell ill and now that he knew his health wasn't looking good then . . .

But again, what were these soldiers taking from him that differed when Braginsky did the same? There was a sickness bubbling up in Alfred and tears fell down his cheeks when the man tossed any care for him and began thrusting into his mouth. Alfred knew what to do so he wasn't hurt, relaxing his throat and swallowing the cock was all he could do to save himself from more bodily harm, but when the soldiers holding him down successfully began pulling his coat off and pulling at his pants, Alfred wondered how much more of himself he could save.

The sound of popping buttons and ripping seems would have upset Alfred over the soldiers ruining his perfectly functioning jacket, but he shivered, trembled when his hips were grabbed and pulled back into a bucking pelvis. All Alfred wanted to do was close his eyes and withdraw himself away from all of this, but his self beration continually told him that he deserved this, that after giving himself into one Russian it was only reasonable to give in to the others. But even as Alfred continued telling himself this through this ordeal forced upon him, that didn't mean he accepted their abuse of his body

It hurt. It hurt so much, but Alfred refused to cry out and tried to relax his body enough to handle the immense stress forced upon it.

They each took turns in his mouth and then taking him dry. Alfred could feel the blood running down his thighs by the rough entries and even harsher movement in and out of him. He didn't know how he managed to mentally hold up the entire way, but after they had been satisfied enough and kicked him to the ground before zipping up and leaving him, Alfred still found himself conscious, able to move even.

As quickly as he could he pulled his pants back up, wincing when he moved too much. The tears in his eyes started anew when he began pulling on his coat again. The buttons had all been ripped off and Alfred struggled just to crawl on his knees to find the places they had been discarded. He'd need to sew them on again after all.

Alfred quickly made his way away from the patrolman's tenting section and even a little ways away from the prisoners' lodging. He threw up by some trees. His stomach lurched all of the semen he was forced to swallow out of itself and even when all of that disgusting substance was gone from him he then hacked up bile and blood. After the expulsion, Alfred felt the pains in his body take over and weaken him. He just wanted to die right then, was that too much to ask of God?

He had ended up collapsing, fainting from exhaustion. When he came to he felt horrible for coming back to the world of living. Just horrible for surviving when he knew he wasn't good enough to.

But Alfred kept his lips sealed about what happened. He knew the others didn't need to save him from the fate he put himself into, and so he saw it best they didn't get involved. He didn't want any of them punished for assaulting a Russian officer. He didn't want any more deaths.

The days grew warmer and so no other prisoner died. Alfred was grateful and hopeful that the worst of everything was behind them . . . not himself. The soldiers came back to use him every few days. Alfred tried to avoid them and keep to more populated sections of the prison camp, but they always managed to drag him away when no one was looking and have their way with them.

Alfred longed for a cleansing. He felt more so disgusted with himself over their hands touching him, and their cocks inside them, pressing their ejaculation deep inside him to keep as a reminder. His clothing began looking more akin to the tatters the rest of the prisoners wore, his own self coming back into relation to their misery.

But, one day, his bedmate found out about these happenings.

"Hey, why haven't you been spending the nights in the tent?" Gilbert approached Alfred while the American sat by a fire, looking into the flames with near dead irises. "Ja, the days are warming, but that doesn't mean I don't enjoy the extra body heat. Where have you been, Jones?"

"I'm not tired," Alfred lied, pulling his knees up to his chest to rest his chin on. In fact, he's never felt so tired in all his life.

Gilbert narrowed his eyes before taking a moment to take in Alfred's appearance. "You haven't been keeping yourself well. Why?" Gilbert knew that Alfred always tried to take the best care of himself; if his clothing was unraveling then he'd mend it, if his hair knotted he'd untangle the locks, all of these things were just natural for the teenaged American, but now, as Gilbert took in his state he noticed the ripped jacket, the grime on his skin, and the unkempt way his hair settled.

The shrug that Alfred gave as a response wouldn't sit well with the Prussian. Gilbert frowned and stood before Alfred, blocking his view from the fire, though Gilbert doubted the boy was even looking at the flames. Leaning forward, Gilbert pushed the boy's knees down and then parted the rent jacket. The sight of bruises littering the boy's skin sickened Gilbert, even more so when Alfred pulled away and wrapped his coat back around himself to conceal the evidence of what likely happened.

"Alfred . . ."

"It's nothing to concern yourself over," Alfred simply excused his state away.

Gilbert gapped. "How long has this been going on and why the hell do you not care?!"

"Because it's the only thing I'm good for," Alfred replied, turning his face and gaze away in shame.

Gilbert had enough and simply took hold of the boy's coat and pulled him close. He was glad to at least get some surprise out of those dull blue eyes, any emotion shone on Alfred was a relief for them all, it let everyone know the boy wasn't dead yet.

"Have more respect for yourself, Alfred!" Gilbert spat, shaking him for good measure if only to rattle some sense into the young soldier. "Can't you see we're concerned for you? Dammit, we thought that when Braginsky got sick that you'd never have to lower yourself into his bed again, but now . . ." Gilbert felt bile rise up his throat and it took everything just to swallow it down again. "Never again, Alfred. Don't you ever submit to them again!"

Gilbert watched tears well up in those weary blue eyes. It tore the Prussian up inside just looking at the pitiful sight. His hands eventually released hold and let Alfred slump back down onto the log he'd been seated on.

"We're going to get you and the others out of here soon." Gilbert would make sure they all received penance for their unnecessary torture. "You're going to go back to your commanders, to your country, your home, your family. Don't you want that, Alfred?"

Alfred broke out into sobs when his trembling hands covered his face. Nothing but pity sank into the Prussian and he wished that none of this would have ever happened to Alfred. It hadn't been fair at all, but he and Alfred were both powerless to stop the crimes of war. It was war after all, and all was fair as it seemed.

"How?" Alfred sniffed. "How do you expect me to face them ever again after what I've done . . . after what's been done to me?"

"You were a strong-willed boy when I first met you, and I knew from the start that you wouldn't lose that attribute." Gilbert sighed. "Don't prove me wrong, ja? Spring's here. After the roads dry we'll move again and if I have to beat some sense into those damn Russians to radio in for your innocence then I will."

Gilbert smiled when he caught a slight chuckle from the boy. He was certain it had been a laugh than a choking sob. All he wanted Alfred to do was hope again.

Gilbert would have said more if one of his men hadn't come running up to him, explaining the news of Braginsky's recover. The damn Russian managed to slip by death, just barely.

"What do we do now?" Gilbert's soldier looked worried, his eyes full of concern when landing on the oblivious American who looked on at their Germanic conversation with confusion.

Gilbert hoped Ivan would focus more on the means of moving the regiment now that the chill was gone and snow melted, but, with all the slush, it set them back a little while more, prolonging their misery before they could finally move again. Gilbert wished the man to forget about Alfred, to be done with him, see his use no more, but the Russian leader returned when better and sought out the American in the array of prisoners.

"It is good to have you back with us, sir," the head Marshal in charge of the prisoners said with a pleasant welcoming smile as Braginsky came toward the prisoner encampment with a few patrolling officers. All business-like, as he usually made it appear.

"Da, is good to finally be rid of that damn fever," Ivan replied, taking in a deep breath of spring air.

"Might I suggest you veer clear of this place?" The Marshal asked, frowning when turning to the lump of useless bodies walking about by the fires. "This place is full of disease and trash. Nothing good can come around being here for too long."

Ivan noticed some of the sickly prisoners coughing or just moaning from fevers. He turned to the man he left in charge of their well-being. "Have these prisoners not seen the doctor while I was decommissioned?"

"Well, no. He'd been busy tending to you, sir." Came the excuse.

Ivan's frown worried the Marshall. "How do you think our men contract these sicknesses? It's from these Germans," Ivan said, pointing down the hill to the prisoners. "If the cattle are ill then they infect the entire herd. I will not have them getting my men sick."

The Marshal batted his eyes and offered a solution smile. "Then why don't we just be rid of the problem entirely?" He motioned toward their weapons. "We have enough ammunition to take care of the task and still have plenty to spare should we run into trouble when we move."

Ivan simply smiled at the man, but not in all agreement with his suggestion. "Nyet. It is much more fun to have trophies to tote. I want as many alive as possible. They can still be good for trade if the Germans have any of our men with them. You should think further ahead than trying to rid a nuisance that you can't see the worth of." Ivan's frown settled deeply on his lips and he turned away from the officer, returning to the main tenting to finalize orders.

It had been a little over two weeks since Ivan fell ill and finally recovered. After his recovery he went back to work on managing the regiment after being away from command for so long. His busyness prolonged Alfred's torment from the soldiers abusing him. But he'd grown to accept it, hoping the damn Russians could find something else to preoccupy their time with than raping him.

Alfred groaned when the last of them finished with him and pulled out. His body was exhausted and his lungs heaved while limbs shook with weariness. There was only two right now but they laughed to themselves while they buckled up.

"Get appropriate, shlyukha, you're going to pay a visit." That was the order given, and not much empathy was shown when the men pressed for Alfred to dress himself. He barely had time to zip his pants when they simply grabbed him and dragged him to his shuttering legs. It was hard walking after what they did to him, even more so at the quicker pace they wanted too, but even still, in the end he was shoved into Lieutenant-colonel Braginsky's tent. Stumbling on his way in made his knees buckle and he collapsed.

His bearings settled when he looked up, an aroma of pleasant smelling food wafted around him, but Ivan was nowhere to be seen.

Everything looked the same as Alfred had last seen this tent over two weeks ago. The sight of two dishes and cups was a nice feeling, but Alfred doubted the meal could clean the taste of those bastards' cum from his mouth.

Getting to his feet, Alfred rubbed his aching belly and took a seat in an offered chair. He didn't touch the food and found himself waiting about an hour until the one who the tent harbored to happen to grace him with his presence.

Alfred sat still, nursing a migraine with massaging fingers. He said nothing when he acknowledged Ivan's entrance and made no motion to turn to him.

It was when the pressing weight of Ivan's palms weighed down on his shoulders that Alfred moved, and that was only to bow his head.

"You could have eaten without me," came Ivan's voice that began to shake Alfred's core, when before it was almost like a comfort . . . dare Alfred say. "I had to take care of a few things in the last moment."

When Ivan moved away and went to his chair to sit and take up his plate, Alfred chanced a short glance at him. The Russian looked better, healthy and fully recovered. Alfred wasn't so certain if it was happiness bubbling up in his gut or just something else. After all, Braginsky was no friend of his or the rest of the prisoners. No, Ivan was no different than those soldiers who took their entertainment out on Alfred. The American was stupid to think otherwise. Prisoners were worthless, their human rights striped, they weren't allowed any privileges, only the illusion therein.

But even with the current enemy sitting before him, Alfred's shame beat him lower than this man and so his gaze fell. He wasn't sure if he could ever look at Ivan or any other Russian again.

Alfred caught the annoyed sigh that came out of Ivan's mouth as well as a curse which Alfred knew was the equivalent for the English word "damn."

"The food is cold," Ivan complained while scooting it away. "I won't eat this. I'll tell the cook to warm the plates. Would be better, da?"

There was a silence after that, notably because Ivan had expected and waited for an answer but Alfred remained silent and still. Alfred didn't see the way Ivan's lips thinned out in a line, nor the way he leaned in, examining him.

Another scoff was heard and then the creak in Ivan's chair when his back met it. "Can nothing be done without my supervision? I was deathly sick for two weeks and when I recover I nearly come back into illness over the mess my junior officers created with their blundering management. I can see they cut back prisoner rations." Ivan's guttural grunts didn't sound pleased. Alfred could only imagine how upset he looked. "I'm certain you noticed my kept time. I've been having to handle correcting their mistakes and shaping this regiment up correctly again. We still cannot move due to the mud, but the days have been growing warmer and the sun's been beating down. It won't be long before we can move again. But, moving with the mess they made was not going to happen." There was a final relieved sigh. "I think I've corrected all I could. We're ready to move when the ground hardens." Ivan looked back toward Alfred and smiled. "There's a town nearby. We'll make for that and set up proper communication with base. Would be nice to move out of these damn tents."

Ivan's optimistic smiles waned after no backup for his enthusiasm was heard. His stared at Alfred, blinking in confusion to his silence. "Are you sick?" He questioned.

Alfred shook his head.

"Then why won't you speak?" Ivan questioned, his tone as condescending as a superior's.

Alfred moved his numb lips, his tone light from weak vocals. He hadn't spoken much to anyone about anything in a long time. "There's nothing to talk about."

Another silence befell them before Ivan sighed, leaning forward and noting the boy's state of dress. "I know it's been but two weeks, but it seems you took better care of that damn German coat than the one I've given you." Ivan's eyes scanned the state of the coat with disapproving eyes. It looked like tatters now. "What have you been doing?"

"Nothing that a prisoner shouldn't," Alfred replied. He offered Ivan a quick sad excuse for a smile before bowing his head again.

"It was expected with my absence," Ivan stated with a sigh, of course referring to the poor handling of the prisoners than what was running through Alfred's mind. "But know that our agreement is still in place. Under my supervision, I'll take care of them as promised."

Spring was here and they were close to a town where communication could be set up. Alfred knew for certain that his boys would be safe after the Russians realized they were really Americans like they had so claimed from the start. So he decided that there was no more need of his services.

"I ask that we stop the agreement," Alfred suddenly spoke up. He still couldn't look at Ivan.

"What did you say?"

For the last time Alfred would be strong, if only for himself. He raised his head and looked at a very displeased Lieutenant-colonel Soviet officer. Alfred stared at him with all the seriousness he could muster.

"I don't want to continue our affair," Alfred simply put. "I don't care what you do to us anymore." They'll be free soon. "Take away our rations and whatever else you want, but our situation will be cleared soon enough."

Ivan narrowed his eyes, fingers tapped against his desk next to him and lips pursed. There really was no punishment to issue to frighten Alfred into taking back all he had said.

"You don't care for the things I give you?" Ivan questioned. He would not be used like a fool.

"No," Alfred said, his eyes glancing away.

"Look at me when I speak to you." Alfred did, but that only meant he had to deal with the immense upset in Ivan's eyes. "Do you suddenly not care for your comrades or commander any longer?"

"Of course I care for them still, but I know when I've run out of use." Alfred felt a sting come to his eyes, but it wasn't enough to show Ivan his internal emotions.

"You have no right to pull out of this, Jones!" Ivan said, pointing at the prisoner to make his point through grit teeth. Alfred just couldn't understand why Ivan was so upset over this. "You are the prisoner and I the warden whom holds your keys. You have no rights, no say in anything that happens to you."

"I know that now!" Alfred bit out, his vocals cracking at the pitch as his eyes moistened all the more for the Russian to notice. "All I want is for you to stop treating me like I do have a choice. Stop making me believe that I have a say when you yourself say I don't."

"You would rather spend your nights in that hellhole? Fine, you can do just that. Get out. I will not have a prisoner attempt to control me." Ivan looked away, seething with upset.

Alfred said no more as he stood up and quickly turned so to hide the sight of his tears beginning to slide down his face. But before he got to the tent flap he was halted by a command.

"Stop," Ivan demanded. Alfred obeyed but did not turn to him, he couldn't. "The way you treat Russian things is disrespectful. Take off that damn coat and leave it here."

Fine, Ivan could have the ruined jacket now. Alfred quickly slipped it off of himself and threw it to the ground before darting out of the tent. He didn't even acknowledge the way Ivan's eyes noticed the sight of those bruises the teen had received from the abusive Russian soldiers. And Alfred certainly hadn't heard Ivan's call for him to stop after departing from the Soviet officer's living quarters.

Alfred just wanted to run back to the prisoner section and crawl into the small tent where he slept. He didn't want to do anything else, but with his vision blurred by tears and legs carrying him faster than a jog he hadn't even noticed the obstacles standing in his way.

He'd run into a soldier, that much Alfred could tell by the foreign language rising up in curses.

"Oh, Alfred. Where are you going so fast?"

Alfred's face paled when he blinked away the tears only to notice it was one of the damn soldiers currently claiming rights to his nonconsensual body. The man was grinning and all Alfred wanted to do was punch the man in the face. He would have too if the soldier hadn't taken a hold of his wrists as if predicting his next move.

"Running into my arms, how nice of you." The man grinned before tugging him along much to Alfred's protest. "You know Sasha never got his turn today. Can't have him skipping out, now can we?"

Alfred cursed his weakness, but he was famished and tired, upset that they planned to continue to use him more after what they had already done to him that day. But he was dragged away and taken to one of their usual spots where they have their way with him. It was just near enough the prisoner section that Alfred really tried struggling to get free.

Of course he expected the hard strike to the jaw that split his lip. It left him dazed and dizzy. He'd fallen down, trying to regain his senses and blink away the spots in his vision.

"I grow tired of your senseless struggles."

The man sneered and jabbed Alfred in the ribs with the toe of his boot, probably enjoying the way Alfred groaned. "But you do look better so colorful."

Alfred shot the man a glare. However this only gave the soldier a reason to grab his jaw and push his face into the mud.

"Well, while we are waiting; can't think of anything better to do."

Alfred clenched his eyes shut when the Russian scrambled for his pants. His frown bit into him when the bastard just broke his belt and tugged the trousers down. Alfred didn't know where he'd get another belt without the suspicion from the others.

Hearing another approach, Alfred cringed when he felt the bastard press down harder upon him, his fingers digging into his hips while pulling his pelvis back into his own. The Russian was already growing hard. The fucker got off so much with tormenting a grungy prisoner.

Alfred quickly sealed his jaw shut. He didn't want to make this easy on the two, ever. He'd gladly take all of the broken noses, split lips, and black eyes.

Alfred coughed when he felt the one behind him suddenly leave him. He hoped the bastard had changed his mind, but the shouts made Alfred twist his head around. What he saw made his eyes widen and jaw loosen.

There was Braginsky, his hands clutched into the grunt's jacket collar, pulling him back, off and away from Alfred. The American doesn't think he's ever seen the Lieutenant-colonel so upset. His eyes looked like they gleamed red from where he lay, and Alfred had to wipe the mud out of his vision just to make sure he wasn't imagining things.

Without so much as a glance toward Alfred, the American watched as Ivan pulled the soldier with him, out of the in-between tenting wires and into a more open space.

The ruckus had alerted the rest of the guards, and one on his way to the place Alfred lay effectively turned around while the prisoners turned heads, some even creeping closer to the commotion. Gilbert was one such, and noticed it was Braginsky. He was shouting at a private he was currently clutching, pulling him around like a rag doll.

The most upset the Prussian had ever seen the Russian officer was when he nonchalantly sentenced him to an icy death, but this . . . that man was _seething_. Gilbert's men continued asking him what was happening or what they were shouting about, but both Russians were screaming at each other in such ways that it was hard to make a clear sentence out if either one.

But even as the scene stirred everyone's attention toward the struggling two, no one spoke up about it. The prisoners watched on in silence as the rest of the Russian soldiers. Some even found it hard to watch, opting to turn their gazes away from the violence displayed.

"You disrespect me with your actions!" Ivan spat at the smaller man he was wrangling.

Gilbert could understand their sentences better, but the American soldiers continued to look on in confusion as had the Prussian's men who knew no other language than German.

"You disrespect us by keeping that bastard German beside you!" The soldier spat back in defense. It was clear that every Russian man hated Germans as every German man hated Russians. There was just too much bad blood between the peoples, but that didn't mean some could not tolerate their differences better than most.

Ivan smiled to hide his anger as well as reveal his amusement about the argument.

"He is nothing but a whore meant to warm beds on cold nights." Ivan even laughed a little, though it didn't signal his dissuade of targeted upset with the insolent grunt. "His status isn't even as valuable as even the greedy pigs like yourself who continually tries to press his snout in a trough not his own."

"You are as human as we are!" The soldiered dared continued argue with his much powerful superior. "What are we given when our beds freeze? Nothing!"

Ivan's grin continued to curl more maniacally, and his eyes slowly lost their vivid gleam. It was attributes to look for when something terrible was about to come about.

"For a German, it is interesting how much you defend your want of him." Ivan's grip on the man crunched and cracked joints. Even those viewing cringed at the sound. "More so you are making me sick." The frown began to set in, and if others thought the Russian looked menacing with that fascading smile then they had yet to see his menacing frown. "Is it not I who is the superior officer? You do not question me, you do not challenge my authority!"

Ivan might have broken the man's arm by the way the soldier cried out in agony, but sadly for him, his anger heightened from the pain inflicted.

"Fuck the prisoners! Damn those German bastards and that whore! You're nothing but a German lover and a traitor!"

Ivan hadn't allowed the man to say anymore when his hand reached down to his gun, pulling out the weapon from the holster on his hip before shoving the barrel into the screaming soldier's mouth and pulling the trigger. The man's skull gave way as the bullet ripped through brain tissue and made to exit through bone. The act surprised the prisoners but not the surrounding soldiers. They seemed all too understanding of the decided execution and too solemn for Gilbert's taste.

When Ivan dropped the body, he wiped his hand down his jacket to remove the blood that had splattered into his clothing. His other hand still gripped his gun in a death grip, his anger having not dissipated one ounce.

"Anyone else wishing to challenge my authority?!" Ivan called out in dare, his eyes turning only to his viewing men. "I am sick of not being respected while I am the commander of this regiment! Don't think I am foolish enough to not know about the bets being made during my illness, waging on the chances of my death. Shameful soldiers, all of you! I had to spend days correcting every damn mistake my officers made during my absence because they believed they could lead this position better than I. None of you are fit to fill my shoes. None! I am tired of being questioned as if I am at fault. If one more dares to challenge my command—"

Braginsky then turned his gun and fired it. His aim struck a prisoner dead where he stood observing the scene with once thought innocence. But now it seemed that Ivan was proving his lack of care for the German prisoners they held in custody . . . even though the one he just shot to prove his point was an American.

"This is what will become of them," Ivan swore. Putting his gun away he walked off without so much time for any retort if anyone dared. Gilbert watched the man dart between tents, seemingly leaving the sector except only to emerge out from betwixt the tenting, pulling a very stiff Alfred along who looked to be struggling to keep his pants up so to avoid tripping over the legs.

God, Gilbert couldn't wait until they moved again, because he knew he'd never be able to do anything more than watch on in silence as Braginsky dragged Alfred back to his tent. Gilbert's never felt any more frightened for his American inmate. Before, Gilbert believed Lieutenant-colonel Braginsky to be just entertaining himself with the boy and would not harm him if so just to enjoy more humor, but now . . . Gilbert wasn't so set in that belief any longer.

But of course he couldn't see the way Ivan pulled Alfred back to the main encampment, back into his tent, stripping off his clothing if just to scrub him clean from the scent and evidence of the others that had touched the American if only in disgust of their mock claim over the prisoner.

Alfred didn't say anything while Ivan poured water on to him, most of the buckets were cold that chilled him to the bone. The only sound he made was the chattering of his teeth, other than that he was compliant and still while Ivan tossed rag after used rag away until Alfred was rubbed raw, everywhere.

"Disgusting vermin," Ivan continually muttered, though in a language Alfred wasn't fully understanding of, though through pitch of tone, the American could sense when the Russian cursed and damned. And so he knew of his complaint with the fact that others had touched him. In a way Alfred was surprised with the peeve but in no way wished to redeem himself in the Russian commander's eyes.

"You can send me away if you're no longer happy with me," Alfred ended up saying after feeling as if Ivan would rub his skin right off the muscle. Even the soldiers abusing him before weren't happy with him and yet, strangely, continued to seek him out as if they had received a content enough satisfaction that seeped inside them like an addiction. Alfred didn't believe Braginsky to be effected nearly the same and so looked forward to returning to his worried friends and remaining surrounded by the prisoners until his country could save them from their wrongly intended strife.

However, when Ivan shot a glare up toward him after tossing out a dirtied rag-one Ivan had been using to clean between Alfred's legs much to the American's pain. The Russian didn't look happy and let no smile conceal his upset now caused by the American.

Quite quickly Ivan stood up, now towering over the American teen before he reached forward and grabbed a hold of Alfred's jaw.

"Are you giving me orders now?" Ivan spat out while his grip shook Alfred's face before those curling fingers let go. "You're a damn prisoner with no rights of your own and I will not handle any disrespect, even from you!"

He had then turned Alfred around and pressed him face-first into the cot while his hands held the boy's hips in an elevation. One hand held his hip secure while the other reached back to own his crotch and unbuckled his belt in a haste. Ivan continued grumbling to himself even as he pulled himself free from his pants and made to press into Alfred without the ease of lubricant or preparation

Alfred's entire body shook when Ivan pressed inside. Tears pricked at his eyes and cries of pain threatened to push past the American's grit teeth. His hands fisted into the sheets after understanding that Ivan meant to take his pleasure from him in however fashion he wished.

Or, perhaps it was to stake a claim.

Ivan showed no mercy in stillness or slow movement. The moment he was fully inside he pulled out and rammed back into the American. Alfred had choked out a sob when the thrust rocked his entire body.

"Be quiet," Ivan demanded with a series of even harder thrusts. The man picked up momentum when both of his hands pulled at Alfred's hips, pulling that pelvis back into him to create a movement from the still prisoner.

Alfred tried spreading his legs a little wider in an effort to make the stretch from Ivan's penis much more bearable, but the new position did little to help. He'd already been raped earlier that day by the two other men and already Alfred could feel the newly opened tears. The blood helped Ivan move a little easier, but not enough to help relax the American.

The weight pressed down upon him hurt just as much as the thrusts. Ivan practically had the American's back arched and hips risen so high that it hurt his very bones just to take such harsh pounding. But Ivan did not shift Alfred to better comfort, instead he held him there while he picked up pace and deepened his thrusts to where Alfred's cries began slipping past his lips.

Alfred's tears fell down his cheeks in ribbons. He'd never been this hurt by Braginsky before, but he had always expected to soon enough. The only difference in this than the soldiers' previous bodily harm was Ivan was so much larger and when he pressed into him, Alfred could feel his tears expanding and seep after seep of trickling blood press out, not doubt coating Braginsky's dick a pinkish red.

Alfred felt light-headed now. His vision already spotted behind clenched shut eyelids while his head felt a pressure build in his skull. His heart pounded with the pain throbbing throughout his body, and his legs shook just to hold Ivan's form pressed between them.

He could hardly breathe between his cries of pain and dripping sobs, but mostly because of how forcefully his face pressed against the sheets, the thick blankets cutting of his oxygen, nearly suffocating him.

When Ivan finally spent himself, Alfred felt the full amount of his tears rush out of his eyes and he cried out louder with his sobs. Ivan hadn't said anything to the noise, simply shuttered and rolled his hips into Alfred's ass to milk all of his pent up fluids. But the hiccupping, trembling sobs grew louder while Alfred laid there being forced to take Ivan's weight and claim.

Alfred tried to conceal his cries by biting into the sheets, but even the muffles rose in volume, especially when Ivan pulled out of him and moved away. The American didn't attempt to move whatsoever, nor tune his ears on to what Ivan was assumedly doing. He didn't care, never did and never will.

But there was no order to leave as is in a bout of humiliation. Not even a simple "quiet!" from the Russian. Alfred's ears didn't catch any word spoken to him and so remained on the cot crying to himself. His body eventually curled up and arms wrapped around himself while he pitied in tears the decrepit life he now had.


	6. Relief

Alfred had slept in Braginsky's tent that night and in no time had the Russian returned to share warmth for the night. Alfred's emotional and physical weakness kept him in bed the entire next day. Ivan had made his presence there once and it was only to place a bowl of porridge down for Alfred to eat. He didn't say anything else nor did he look toward Alfred. He simply entered the tent, placed the bowl down and then left as quickly as he came.

Alfred didn't eat the food until later that night. It was hard just to move to get the dish set down on Ivan's desk. Alfred walked bow-legged and took one slow step at a time. He could feel the wounds on and inside his body, they were sore and healing with cracking scabs that hurt from the feel.

When Alfred could, he took up the painstaking time to clean himself. The rag was wet with only cold water and the chill prickled his skin. Even so, Alfred managed and successfully cleaned himself even from Ivan's sadistic claim. If the Russian had any issues concerning these things then he could put a bullet to Alfred's head for all he cared. Alfred just didn't give a damn anymore.

In the tent, Alfred wasn't quite certain on how long he had stayed. But one day, as Ivan came in he tossed the American a change of clothing.

"Dress and get in rank with your comrades," was all Ivan said while he knelt down and began sorting his belongings. From this Alfred could tell they were getting ready to move.

This time, when Alfred moved he didn't hurt as bad as before. His clothing was that of Russian attire, but Alfred said nothing about it. The clothes were dry and warm and kept him comfortable when he joined the others.

"Mein gott! I thought you were dead!" Came Gilbert, the first to wrap an arm around the disgruntled American's neck.

"I certainly feel it," Alfred replied quite monotonously.

"Enough of that," Gilbert retorted, smacking the teenager against his chest. "We're moving, Alfred. It won't be long until all of this will be cleared for you and the others. I hope they try that damn Braginsky for all the things he's done to you. Nothing but death will make me happy."

Alfred kept quiet and only listened to the Prussian's hopes before noticing his comrades coming around him with optimistic smiles of their own before embracing their brother in arms and praying for his salvation. Alfred cried again, just like a little baby he sobbed his eyes out and clung to his fellow Americans as much as they had to him.

The march forward was much more tolerable with his brothers supporting him if Alfred began falling behind. Alfred was glad that Ivan kept to himself and settled for the lead at the front of the moving regiment. A hope now that the Russian Lieutenant-colonel was through with him.

Their tiring march ended up landing them in a town. It was more or less abandoned after devastating aerial raids demolished even the sturdiest of buildings. But there were still places to set up shelter and reside in.

The prisoners were the ones that got the structures with no roofs to conceal them from the harsh extremities of the weather should they come about. Luckily the spring weather was appeasing and settled many of the men's discomfort.

"I saw some of the soldiers trying to set up radio wave lengths," a fellow American mentioned that night when they all settled down around fires and enjoyed the cool evening air. They had just filled their bellies with dinner, grateful that the portions grew to a more hunger-appeasing amount.

"God, it's about damn time," another said in a swooning sigh. "What we went through was shit. I can't wait to go back home."

"Do you think they'll send us home?"

"What do you mean? They'd better!"

"Well, those with damaging wounds, I can see that, but not all of us are hurt. Suppose we just get sent back to the battlefield."

There was a silence in contemplation.

"Even if we do. It can't be as bad a place as this right here."

And that was the honest truth to them. Every single one of those soldiers would gladly fight amongst the frontline over and over than go through the hell they had been dragged through. None knew where they would be positioned when things cleared up—and, by God, they better—but all they would be satisfied with is seeing their uptight drill sergeants again. That was all.

While the Americans spoke of their hopes for the future, Gilbert kept his gaze surrounding the area they resided. The place was calm and quiet and a reasonable position to defend if the need to do so arose. He knew for certain that the Russians would lock in on a frequency soon to clarify their location and that could either mean another move or the joining of more Soviet squadrons. Gilbert knew he and his men wouldn't last long, most of them probably would even make it to the prison camp they were being dragged to. He wished they could find a means to escape but the prospect of such a happening looked bleak. Of course he and his men did find a happiness for their fellow American inmates in knowing they'd be free from this strife and perhaps put in a good word for them when their chains were unshackled. The possibility of getting traded to the American prison camps was wishful thinking, but it kept their imaginations alive.

The Russians had seemed busier now that they had a town to patrol and so the guards watching over the prisoners were few. The POWs were less harassed now and more so left by themselves. Everyone was just too weak to make a run for it, and with the weather clearing it wouldn't be hard for the Soviet grunts to pick off the runaways with their rifles.

But the seemingly peaceful situation certainly didn't let the sun set properly until some of the guards approached and issued an order for a prisoner to be taken into their custody. Said prisoner happened to be none other than Alfred F. Jones. His targeting of course came to no surprise.

Alfred had settled in nicely with his men, finally wording in on conversation and meeting eye-contact. Without Braginsky's hold over him he felt a little freer in a sense, but when these men demanded he come with them he knew that the Lieutenant-colonel called. He didn't want to go.

These Russian soldiers didn't know English too well and only spoke the commands in order to be followed. They could not retort the denial however. They looked at one another, confused by Alfred's reluctance and ignorance.

No one stopped Alfred's rejection and in fact he got many an English and German chorus of encouragement to stay strong and resist. The boys were fairing fine and he did not need to offer himself for their salvation any longer.

"Fuck off," Gilbert responded in Russian so the two baffled guards knew what the others were expressing. "I think I hear panzer tanks in the distance. Go do something useful than waste your time with us."

They shared looks again before retreating from the threat of a riot. They weren't bothered again for the night and everyone slept peacefully in hope for the morrow to finally contact the allies.

For the first time in a long time Alfred had pleasant dreams, these dreams of course had to end with an abrupt wake up when someone shook him. His eyes fluttered open, wide at the notice of the still present nightfall and sudden awakening.

A worry would have risen hadn't Alfred noticed a tall figure standing next to where he lay wrapped in nothing but his coat to comfort him on the ruble he called his bed. The familiarity set Alfred at ease, but not enough to word his confusion.

It was Ivan.

Alfred's frown was no doubt noticed by the Russian commander, but the older man held his bland expression and kept to a curiously quieter tone.

"Care to elaborate why you didn't come when summoned?"

Alfred settled himself back into the jagged rocks digging into his spine. He pulled his coat collar up, rubbing his lips against the fabric to hide his frown, though he really didn't care if it was the only thing Ivan beheld. He wasn't in the mood to deal with the man, hadn't been for a while.

"Because I don't want to see you." And that was Alfred's reply while he turned onto his side, intent on wholly ignoring the man. It might have been a dangerous thing to do, and probably was, but Alfred was past the point of caring.

"I often wonder where this neglect of superior respect came from. It is quite funny." The chuckle emphasized Ivan's humor in Alfred's supposed rejection.

A heavy sigh expelled through Alfred's nostrils. For once in a while he had managed to get some peaceful dream-filled sleep. Ivan's presence prevented him from falling back into stress-free slumber. "What, are you going to shoot me?"

"I could." The grim statement no longer gripped Alfred's heart with fear as it may have once before. Perhaps he just looked forward to death now.

So he egged on the threat to find out if it was shallow or not. Alfred remained quiet and defiant. He knew Braginsky was a harsh man and he knew he could enact that brutality even on him. Maybe he wanted him to right then.

At least it would settle Alfred's conflicted thoughts that continually argued inside him, saying things in positivity for the Russian commander instead of the wrongs his thoughts should be dwelling on.

But Ivan seemed to let him remain in silence, which bothered Alfred enough to turn him to look at the man. Ivan was no longer smiling, but he wasn't moved by the rejection and remained an annoyance in Alfred's space.

"Get up and come with me." The order was said through teeth and the tone of it was very agitated in its sound. There was a no-nonsense about the Russian now and the only reason why Alfred complied was because he didn't want the man to suddenly take hold of him and begin dragging him across the debris overlaid town.

Alfred was led without a single word, the Lieutenant-colonel obviously expecting him to keep up and mind his own step. The town they camped at wasn't really big per say, and with most of its buildings crumbled to the ground, it wasn't hard to lose oneself amidst their brick skeletons.

Even though the walls had been shelled down by mortar, it seems that Mr. Braginsky had managed to claim one of the only still-standing homes. Half of the house had been blown away, but with tarps placed over the empty spaces, it wasn't that bad of a place to call home for a little bit.

The interior was nice. Surprisingly, most of the furnish was still in place. There was a fully mantled fireplace, a small dining table and chairs, a couch as well as a side rocking chair, and even a bed off to the side. An actual bed, mattress and all.

Alfred stared at that piece of furniture the most. He had dreams constantly mostly of finally laying his head down in a real bed. But, considering said luxury now resided next to the lieutenant-colonel, Alfred wasn't so certain that was the bed of his longed-for dreams.

"Go ahead and take a seat." Ivan's command as well as push forced Alfred over toward the dining area. The table and chairs sat close to the stove where the burners warmed the atmosphere and a pot bubbled atop it.

Alfred took his time testing the durability of the chairs. When he found the one with less of a wobble he sat himself down. In the same time a bowl of red soup fell before his vision.

Alfred took one glance at the bowl of soup before looking back up to observe the Russian commander pouring himself one. Alfred had remained silent in his viewing, keeping his weary gaze on the man whom then turned, sat his bowl down and then himself across the table. He observed how Braginsky looked at him and at the untouched food.

"Eat up," Ivan commanded after sliding a spoon over toward Alfred and then doing what he so commanded himself. "You won't be having any more meals like this once we meet up with another battalion and trade you off to the camps."

Alfred didn't touch his food, nor even reach out to take up the offered silverware. His gaze fell, eyes taking in the meal before him. It smelt pleasant, and Alfred was famished, but the thoughts of his impending destination dampened his hunger. God, what if his and the others' situation was never cleared up? Would they really have to live out the remainder of their days in a Russian prison camp?

"It's borscht," Ivan noted, pointing toward the soup. "I was surprised I found all of the ingredients still in the pantry." His violet gaze then glanced around the home. "Whoever lived here in this town left in quite a hurry."

After a while of one-sided small talk, Ivan eventually grew irritated. He sighed, wiped his mouth and then leaned back, pointing toward the untouched bowl near Alfred's seat. "If you aren't going to return conversation then eat."

"What is the point?" Alfred asked.

Ivan frowned. "To enjoy a nice meal."

Alfred refused to look at Ivan after that. "I won't be fattened by you again." There simply was no point.

The chuckle certainly turned Alfred's attention back to the Russian. "It is not for you," Ivan explained. He glanced back over toward the pot for a moment in motion. "I simply made too much and needed another to finish it with me. I do not like leftovers."

"There are plenty of Soviet officers who would admire your cooking." Alfred offered a short quick smile just to make certain Braginsky knew of his sarcasm. He didn't care if he was beat or shot on the spot, he was tired of playing games with the man, as well as with this horrible life he was in the middle of.

Another chuckle. "Call me a charitable man, then, for the moment."

Alfred's frown deepened. He could still feel his hunger trying to goad him on like Braginsky was, but the man's presence was an eyesore—even for a disgusting "enemy prisoner."

For a moment there was a standstill, and it was indeed Ivan who eventually moved, leaning forward and taking up his silverware to finish his dish. He took a bite, keeping his eyes on Alfred who remained defiant in his presence before he smiled and decided to focus his attention on his made food.

"You know, my sister makes much better dishes than I." Ivan placed his spoon down and peacefully reminisced. "I think when war is over I will have her make my favorite dishes in celebration." There was a faint smile and a far-off look in his eyes. Alfred's really never seen him so relaxed, but he kept his eyes on Braginsky, even as the man leaned back and folded his hands together on his lap while tilting his head up toward the hole-riddled ceiling. "I can almost smell them now . . . baking in the oven, and roasting in a pot on the stove. Katyusha always kept in the kitchen to make sure nothing burned." Ivan let out a chuckle while he shifted in his seat, a fond smile cracking his pale lips. "But I doubt she could ever ruin anything she makes. I, of course, stalk near, wanting to pine for her attention so she'd give me a sample. She usually did." Ivan sighed, shaking his head. "I'd stay there and eat it all, but Natalia wouldn't let me stay in one spot for very long. Then, out I'd go, rushing out the back door into the snow. Hm, but it is fine, Leningrad snow was never too harsh." Ivan's smile vanished while he turned his gaze toward the tarp fluttering in the wind. The night was a little chilly, but nothing like what they previously suffered. "Not like here . . . on the frontlines."

Like Alfred gave a damn about Ivan's childhood recollection. However, the longing in his voice was noted and taken to heart despite Alfred's best internal defenses. It struck him deep because he felt the same. He knew that all of the soldiers did . . . even the damn Nazis.

They were all human. They all had families waiting for them at home. Friends and loved ones wanting to embrace them again and thank God they survived this devastating war.

 _If_ they survived.

While Alfred had come to terms long ago that every soldier—no matter what side they were on—were just trying to survive to their next day like the other beside them, and in times of desperate survival you were pushed to do cruel things, terrible things, unspeakable things. Alfred wouldn't put it past his own countrymen to enact horrible deeds upon their enemies. Things overlooked for the sake of the anger of war and the want to stop all of the deaths.

But even after all those excuses for the criminal acts committed, Alfred was still certain there were true evil people in this world using this war a means to get away with their innermost inhumane desires. His eyes darted toward Braginsky, mentally condemning him as one of them, but the almost peaceful and happy look on his face turned Alfred's heart away from such damning thoughts.

Heh, and here Alfred thought he had lost all innocence and sensitivity to empathy.

A sigh from Ivan broke through the silence. The creaking of a shifting wobbly wooden chair next. Alfred had to blink to come to understand that the Lieutenant-colonel was looking at him. A soft short chuckle exhaled through Braginsky's nostrils while he jutted his chin, motioning toward Alfred in the same time as he reached for a glass of the beverage he was downing.

"And what about you, hmm? Do tell me the location where your superiors said you were raised." The Russian took a sip, making himself comfortable, a look of intrigue spreading across his features, a façade of many Ivan wore so not to come too close personally. It was a look that could easily shift into a darker tone depending on the response received.

At the inquiry Alfred would normally remain quiet in hopes the Soviet commander would grow irritated at his lack of response, annoyed at his incompetence, and bored of his company. He wanted Ivan to send him back to the pile of rubble he had claimed as a bed, but just then, Alfred wanted more so to grant Ivan this information. Perhaps it was because Alfred still so desperately wanted the man to realize he really was American.

"I was born in Virginia." Alfred had begun slow at first, but the more he tore himself away from the scene and focused on the land of his birth, on his parents, his family, the words began to flow better, and the story pieced together perfectly in the layout of Alfred's known life. "Second . . . Jonathan was born first. After me came Amelia, and then Jan." Alfred offered a faint smile in recalling his siblings and the good memories he had with them. Oh, how short a time he really shared together with them. "Dad got a job in the city of Philadelphia, so we moved there . . . grew up there. Mom didn't like it because it was nothing but concrete jungle out there, but we carried on, as any new family would in a new place." Alfred managed a small fit of laughter in recalling his childhood. "We used to play baseball in the streets with the neighborhood kids, even when the cars honked at us we didn't move until we managed to steal a base." Alfred laughed again. "Jonathan used to make fun of me because I kept breaking our attic window. Not the neighbors, none of theirs, just ours for some odd reason. And it was always that same damn window . . ."

It was easy to tell by the blank look in Alfred's irises that he was in another time and place. Ivan watched with interest and listened with an opened minded attitude, but he kept to himself, content on letting Alfred speak his mind and on what he was reliving just then.

The soft smiles and light chuckles were signs of recollection and fondness, not that Ivan might admit he believed the stories he was hearing from the so-called American. But they were interesting, and seemed realistic enough to give a weighing option to.

"But the city wasn't as bad as mom thought. Some of the best times were when the lamps came on and we'd head downtown to swing on the statues and run up and down the buildings. I loved them . . . I loved their history. I always did good in that course because I read all of those monuments' plaques. Mom was proud, and encouraged me to grow up to become a teacher." Alfred sighed. "I thought about it . . . might have heeded her advice . . . put then the war came."

There was a pause. Alfred reached up to rub his nose. He shifted then, pulling his jacket around him further. He felt a little lightheaded and figured it was from the cold.

"Jonathan was old enough when the first draft came out." Alfred sniffled again. "Mom was heartbroken sending him off, and dad never spoke about it, even when he began writing us letters from Africa." This time, after Alfred rubbed his red nose he began to rub his eyes, mirroring in color. "It wasn't long after that that the Selective Service got a hold of my birth certificate and ushered me off to register." The sniffling inhales were becoming more pronounced, and by the changing shade of Alfred's eyes and nostrils, Ivan could determine it wasn't the temperature that was irritating the prisoner's senses. "I was a good private, I always did what my captains told me to do. They said I could climb the ranks quickly with my potential . . ." Ivan began to notice the sudden quivers in Alfred's bottom lip. "I wrote my family every day, even Jonathan managed to send me . . ." Alfred shifted in his seat, his hand coming up to rub at his mouth, wiping away excess saliva slipping past the corners. "They all prayed for me when I was deployed on my first mission with my battalion . . ." Alfred inhaled to try to steady his breathing, but the deep breath of air revealed just how shaky his vocals were becoming. "But all of their prayers didn't do a damn thing when our plane experienced engine trouble and went down." Alfred now struggled to keep his blinking eyes open, opting instead to continuing rubbing them like the rest of his irritated face. "It all went to hell after that! The pilot died, but miraculously none of the boys were harmed . . . until we were attacked by the Nazis. We were prisoners of war now, all headed to their damn Nazi camps. We've all heard how well they treated their prisoners, none of us expected making it out alive." Alfred then let out a few laughs, enough to bubble up tears in his eyes that vaguely began falling down his cheeks which his fingers quickly tried to hide. "Then the Russians came. That was swell, wasn't it? They were part of the Allies. They'd set us free . . ." Alfred's laughter grew in volume as did the amount of his tears. "But no . . . no, they thought it was funny to lump us with the damn Germans!" Alfred wasn't laughing anymore. His shoulders were shaking as if he were, but no laughter resounded out of his throat. The noises escaping his mouth sounded more like pathetic sobs than anything else. "But it's not funny . . . not at all . . . not when we're suffering . . . not when we're dying for something we didn't do!"

During this reminisce, Alfred understood just how short a time he had with his family and friends back in the States and how much he had taken for granted. Oh, what he'd do just to go back; to play ball with his brothers and best friends, to race around the parks with his sister, to see his mom wear those nice dresses of hers, and to talk with his dad again. Alfred missed all of these things so much, but he was stuck in Hell with no means to escape. It was more becoming that Alfred would rot in this vicinity in an unmarked grave rather then getting to go home and be laid to rest next to his other family members who had fought and served and gave their all for their country.

And it was because of all this that Alfred cried. He didn't care that Braginsky was there, watching him, presumably cutting him down with those damning eyes of his. He hated the man. He was nothing but a curse in his life, and would forever be his darkest regret if Alfred ever managed to make it out of this ordeal alive.

A chuckle, or maybe it was a scoff, or perhaps something else, came out of the Russian. Alfred turned his blurry eyes toward him and watched how his expression hardly shifted at all when he blatantly said, "For a moment . . . I almost believed you."

Rubbing at his leaking face, Alfred tried to remain strong and stubborn. He let his anger take over him, making his eyebrows furrow and his eyes narrow. But he doubted he looked that much of a threat against the well-composed Russian officer who continued to stare at him with hardly a sensible expression to decipher.

"Why?" Alfred hiccupped, trying to cough just to rack all of the sobs away from his heaving chest. "Why did you do it?"

Alfred could hear himself as he inhaled wet breaths full of snot. He sounded utterly miserable, reflecting perfectly how he felt. But he didn't need to tell or show that to Ivan. It was likely the bastard already knew. Putting on a show like this no doubt humored the Soviet commander, but Alfred was too weak to reign in his emotions, and so he miserably cried why trying to expel a question that had settled inside him since the very beginning.

"Why did you pick me to entertain yourself with?" Alfred knew he wasn't anything special than the other boys. Why the Russian took a fancy to him was beyond his understanding. He had used it, however, to save himself and as many of his comrades as he could, and Alfred often wondered if it were anyone else, if they would have done the same. Perhaps, perhaps not. Perhaps they would have been stronger than him and saw to all of their ends honorably despite their identity mix-up.

Even through Alfred's hot tear-welled eyes he caught that twitch of a smile. Though, the small and quick gesture could either give away Ivan's humor, or his utter agitation with the situation.

Ivan leaned forward, Alfred watching him as closely as he could while trying to hide his miserable cries to himself. An elbow touched the surface of the table while a pale chin rested down on a glove overlaid palm. Ivan didn't hide his confirmation of amusement from Alfred this time and freely allowed him to take in his forming smile.

"Because you looked least like a Nazi."

That was Ivan's answer? That was why the damn bastard decided to pick him out of the over hundred—less by now—prisoners to mentally toy with and then to physically own like some inanimate toy?

Ivan's smile widened, just a fraction, as he added on to his answer. "And you looked very good when I dressed you as a Soviet officer." He chuckled, a sigh escaping his lips casually while he looked over the prisoner. "Is shame you aren't."

No . . . Alfred might have known he'd receive an answer like this. Honestly, he couldn't have expected any more than these exact words. Why he had asked the answer for an already mentally understood and verified question was beyond him. His mind . . . just wasn't what it used to be. He was tired, worn both physically and spiritually, and all he wanted was a place to lie down and rest.

It was becoming more common for Alfred to lay his eyes over toward the bed off to the side near the partially broken wall. It looked immensely pleasing in his weary state. It still had sheets and a mattress, and hopefully a bedframe that wasn't snapped.

It could be Alfred's fantasized heaven for the moment; a bed enabling him one night's peaceful rest. But even that seemed too much to ask for.

A sigh was heard from Braginsky, even the sound of his chair scooting out as the Russian stood up, but Alfred kept his eyes on the bed and lost himself in the dreams inside his head. He hadn't taken in how Ivan took up his untouched bowl and silverware, as well as his own dishes and began the process of cleaning up the small space where they dined.

"You are allowed to go lay and rest. It is late and I am not in the mood to escort you back to the prisoner section." Alfred caught Ivan's words, even as the man walked away and set the bowls and silverware in the sink near the stove. However, he didn't understand the need for them.

"I can return myself. I know my way back," came Alfred's answer in hopes of getting Ivan to dismiss him.

The clinking of dishware tapping together stopped. Alfred knew Ivan had turned to look at him, but Alfred's eyes never took off the designs atop the small dining table. Nothing else was fascinating enough to catch his visual interest.

"I have not given you permission to leave my presence."

Alfred might have guessed Ivan would say something like that. Not that he cared in any amount of earnest. Instead Alfred just slunk down, crossing his arms and laying his head down atop them to prepare for the long restless night he'd likely have in this man's godawful company.

It, of course, wasn't expected for Ivan to come to him so quickly and nudge his arms off of the table. It startled the weary prisoner and Alfred immediately tried mustering up a glare for the Russian, hoping in some way he'd pay for his rudeness with a strike across the face or something akin to a beating, but no such luck. All he caught was the sight of a very unpleased Lieutenant-colonel. Those violet eyes of his continued to flick over toward the bed Alfred had been eyeing just a little while ago.

"Go and lay down so I can clean up," Ivan demanded, and it seemed he would wait to move until Alfred himself did so.

Slowly, Alfred got up, heading over toward the sleeping destination. He approached it slowly, often glancing back toward Ivan only to take note that the Russian was busying himself in cleaning up as he said he would before setting up a makeshift desk for himself on the table with papers and pen boxes, and something that looked like a radio. Alfred's ears never caught the static of it and so he assumed Ivan neglected to turn it on and look for a frequency.

So he focused his attention back toward the full bed. It looked too pleasing to the eye, neatly made, and possibly soft. Alfred leaned down, pressing his hands down upon it just to test the cushion. He could hear the springs cringing underneath his touch, but it made him sigh and all too soon his body melted onto the mattress.

Alfred laid there, just staring up at the cracked ceiling, never minding settling himself into the sheets than simply basking in laying on a soft and comfortable mattress. It was a far cry from the ruble he had claimed for his own back at the prisoner section, and even the guilt of his rightful slumbering place couldn't dissuade him from closing his eyes and cracking a small smile for the sheer comfort he found himself in.

He hardly slept, but that wasn't to say he was not getting the rest he needed. Alfred could feel his strength settle and build for the means of the next day, whatever that might bring upon him. But Alfred forced himself to focus solely on the comfort and peace at hand. He wanted to cherish what he knew would likely disappear faster than he could blink.

He wanted to remember what laying down on a real bed felt like before the unappreciated luxury was taken from him.

So he kept his eyes closed and rested his mind. For once in a while he might have dreamed of something pleasant, but he was subtly pulled from his running dreams to the sound of static and the familiar tone of one's mumbles.

Alfred turned his head, noticed Ivan still sitting at the small dining table. He was hunched over, currently dialing the nobs on the comlink he had with him. He even had the receiver to his mouth, saying words into it in hopes to no doubt make contact with his comrades . . . however far, or close, the next regiment was.

Alfred watched him for a while with weary eyes and a paralysis already set in his body. He was warm and comfortable and had no intention on moving, so he just watched and listened for as long as the soft crackles of static kept him awake. Despite his lack of knowledge for the Russian language, Alfred could clearly understand that Ivan was growing frustrated over lack of catching a proper frequency.

He witnessed Ivan shut the device off in his frustration and slump back in his chair, knocking his knuckles against his lips. Those violet eyes of his flickered over toward where Alfred lay but he didn't glance away to avoid the Russian catching him staring. Alfred didn't care if they made eye contact, neither said a word.

It was Ivan who made himself busy again that night, standing up and shifting his lain out work to situate the mess. Alfred watched him for a little while until his vision blurred and the moisture in his eyes lulled him back to slumber.

It went on like this throughout the night; his eyes would open and he'd take in his surroundings to scour for any changes and if any were found he'd stare until his eyelids became too heavy and closed over his observing gaze. He had tracked Braginsky's movement in the night this way, not because he was afraid of what he'd do to him whilst he slept defenselessly, but simply because his weary blue eyes would automatically fall upon the Russian's form for reasons Alfred had yet to figure out and was simply too uninterested in the means to discover.

Alfred must have closed his eyes for longer than expected because the last he had seen of the Lieutenant-colonel he had been standing near the hearth drinking from his flask. Now, the man was in bed with him, pressed next to him, with a gloveless hand now laying against Alfred's chest.

Alfred hadn't moved from his position on his back and remained that way out of sheer sleep paralysis. He figured he could move, if he mustered enough will in his mind, but his thoughts seemed to focus solely on the Russian near him, baring down upon him. Ivan had down dressed for bed, nothing but a thin layer of clothing while he grasped the blankets to cocoon himself in, but, apparently, somewhere along the way to settle in for the night the man's hands felt it appropriate to molest the nearest prisoner first.

Maybe this helped Braginsky sleep better at nights. Maybe it was something more akin to habits. Or maybe this was a conscious decision the Russian had decided to accept, for better or worse.

It could have been any of these scenarios. As before, Alfred has grown tired of trying to find the meaning in any part of his currently wretched existence and the reasoning for the happenstance that befalls upon him. As of now, the only thing that bothered him, that absolutely infuriated the American prisoner was that he did nothing to stop Ivan from touching him, nor did Alfred turn away when the man fully leaned over him, caging his body while he pressed cold lips down upon his own chapped folds.

Perhaps even above the despising of his lack of rejection for this unfolding situation was Alfred's absolute loathe for the way his body leaned into practiced touches, how he felt his body _want_ what was being done to it. As if he hadn't had enough of this before.

Alfred had to swallow back a sound when Ivan's lips descended on his throat. He wasn't certain what kind of sound it was, there were a plethora of possibilities that could strengthen Alfred's resolve or have it crumbling to the ground, so Alfred didn't think on what it might have been or how it would have sounded out of his mouth, instead he set to focusing his attention on the trail of those kisses.

The further those seeking lips descended the more Ivan's touch began revealing its course. Nimble fingers began their work in unclasping the buttons sealing up Alfred's collar, once popped open, those pale lips continued to press against the skin of Alfred's throat. But the hand and its fingers did not fall away, no, Ivan's hand slipped inside the coat when enough room was given through the collar and immediately reached down to rub the base of Alfred's neck, fingers massaging the American's jutting collarbone with a gentleness that still always caught Alfred off guard.

This time a sigh had left his lips, an involuntary act of appreciation for the way those rubbing fingers felt massaging the tension out of taut muscle. The subtle arch into the touch hadn't even been recognized by Alfred's senses until he felt the hand slip down lower, skimming across his torso on down. When its path was hindered by restricting fabric, Ivan saw to unbuttoning the rest of his hindering coat.

Alfred shivered when the heavy jacket began falling down his shoulders. He was sure mobility began returning to him around this certain point because he recalled his shoulders rolling while his elbows propped his form up from behind. He was getting up, but Alfred forget the reasons for such motions when he leaned up, successfully locking his arms underneath himself instead of just lying there caged under Ivan's form.

Now Alfred was closer, more than he'd thought previously. His movement had forced Ivan to lean back, but now they stared even level at each other. Neither said a word, but their expressions mirrored the other. Alfred wondered if his eyes were just as dark as Braginsky's right then. The Russian remained still for the most part, except for the rise and fall of his chest or the loosening of his jaw to part his lips for the need to exhale even breaths in the rising atmosphere around them.

When Alfred inhaled he realized he too was short of breath. He could feel the heat surrounding them slithering past his exposed teeth, but Alfred did not close his mouth like he wanted. In that moment he couldn't control the motions of his body which made him envious of Braginsky.

As Ivan leaned forward again, one of his hands cupped the back of Alfred's head, fingers tangling into hair, gently tugging at the strands for better grip while the man pressed his mouth against Alfred's again. And that was why Alfred was jealous, because he knew Ivan was conscious through all of this, having full command over his own senses to bid his body move at his own command. Yet there Alfred was, slipping from the command center as seemed usual now, reacting out of habit and controversially trained instinct. His hands reached up, his own fingers tangling into the fabric of the Soviet officer's light shirt as he slowly descended back down onto the mattress with Ivan's weight reigning down upon him to keep him there, still and compliant.

The sounds around them now were filled with nothing but the cracking coals from the heated hearth as well as the wet movement of their mouths as tongues sought to dance to an all too familiar rhythm and fabric sliding against fellow article of clothing as buttons were unclasp and knots untied for a means to breach the desired nudity underneath. Before long the heat from the hearth was a distant memory while two bodies worked to generate enough warmth to share between. The rise in temperature left minds ignoring the once cold shielding clothing in favor of sending arms wrapping around the heat presented before it.

Alfred could feel Ivan breathe against him. Their bare chests were crushed against each other so tightly then Alfred even believed to feel the beat of the Soviet's heart. The feel always mesmerized him, simply from the constant daily belief that the Russian was void of any such life-giving and feeling emitting organ. So it wasn't Alfred's own fault that he held onto Ivan a little tighter if just to better feel the motion of the beats.

But of course the way Ivan's lips descended down his body often brought Alfred's mind away from counting the heartbeats of his bedmate. So wickedly skilled and demanding that mouth brought out sounds from Alfred's throat while his body continually arched into the press of those working lips. And when warm breath skittered near Alfred's face he found himself twisted his neck in search for the source so that it may combine with his own heated pants.

Constantly Alfred would deny initiating something as intimate as a kiss. He never took responsibility for any he so pressed forward onto the Russian's mouth that night. He blamed it all on instinct, on something he had been mentally trained to do for an entire season. The guilt was replaced by the fear and worry if he'd ever grow out of such carved in habits, but even before the dreaded cold sweat could seep from his pores, Alfred clung close, wrapping his arms and legs around the figure radiating the warmth to drive away the cold that night.

In the same that Alfred could not be accounted for his seeking lips, he ignored the way his hands flexed fingers, expanding to feel skin and muscle while they slid up Braginsky's unbuttoned shirt. While Alfred's eyes drank in the vision of his exposed torso pleasantries, his hands slid up firm back, dipping in the contour of the arching spine while the tips of his fingers slid up until falling back out of the groove to take hold onto flexing shoulder blades.

A sharp breath was sucked in while in its path the compartments of Alfred's body hit a rigid stance. His fingers holding onto Ivan no doubt began dipping into his pristine skin. Oh, what lovely little red crescent shapes they'd be, but from Alfred's position he would probably not be able to chance seeing them. Not with the way Ivan's body continually hovered over him, caging him, while his left hand held onto his thigh tightly and his right dipped between, just lower than the position of Alfred's scrotum to wiggle fingers into muscle that needed to be loosened before either could continue further.

Alfred's practiced this before. It was all too easy to fall into routine after so many times. His head laid back against the sheets, his breathing evened under his command, and his body laxed in hopes to speed the process. Of course Alfred would never condone the thoughts of doing this as a means to quicken up the process of something he wanted. He knew his voice would not be heard and his struggles futile, but the way his body opened up for the Russian in such rehearsed practice was mindfully daunting to Alfred's reasoning, but he didn't dwell on it for long.

As usual, eyes clenched shut and lips pulled taut until teeth were bared in a grit. Alfred managed to compose himself during this necessary part and after the Russian had slunk all the way inside him, for a moment he had wanted to mentally pat himself on the back for shedding no tear and biting back any weak cry, but Alfred refused to acknowledge baring this as something akin or worthy of a compliment. So he tried as he might to draw his mind into a blank state. He had done so before on multiple occasions, but this time, this time Alfred couldn't think . . .

Of anything else than Ivan above him.

Little sounds began subtly slipping through Alfred's teeth and past his lips the moment Ivan had lowered himself just enough for Alfred to feel the roll of his abdomen against his own when his moved, gyrated his pelvis to begin a rhythm of thrusts. Alfred's hands slipped lower on Ivan's back with each press inside. The sensations numbed his senses, weakening his body to the euphoric pleasure that Alfred regretted ever coming to know.

Already Alfred could feel his fingers run down the pale skin on Ivan's back, the fabric of the Russian's shirt brushing against his knuckles while moisture perspired upon Alfred's palms from their heated contact.

Ivan wasn't rough with Alfred this time. Those strong calloused hands on his that had slipped down behind Alfred's pressed body to push against the curve of his hips weren't bruising in their touch nor demanding to keep hold or still. The weight pressed down upon Alfred wasn't overbearing or burdening, but even, just enough to add to the pleasure pressed between his thighs. And the movement of the Russian's cock inside him was steady and well-paced, just pressing enough to slink in deeper after previous descent and angled so that Alfred would shudder, and tremble in physical exertion to ecstasy.

He hated it when Ivan did things like this, because it made Alfred want to hold him a little closer, because Ivan always leaned back just enough to tempt the prisoner with his offered heat both needed on nights like this; to rub him a little harder, because despite Ivan's use of a more gentler means to seek his own pleasure, Alfred needed a more rough and demanding treatment, even right then; and to kiss him a little bit more for reasons . . . that Alfred still wasn't quite certain on.

"Ivan." The moment Alfred gasped the man's name, there was a pause almost, a halt in movement as deep amethyst eyes turned to look at him, actually meet his gaze that both had been avoiding. The moment of clarity came from this short break in time. Panted breaths filled the air around them, and the sounds of their caged moans rumbled through their chests.

It was undecided as to who moved first. Either it was Alfred who had brought his hands up to clasp around Ivan's neck, or Braginsky himself who lowered his body, pressing Alfred more into the mattress while his arms wrapped around the boy's frame, pulling him flush against his body so that nothing slipped between the two. But, for certain, it was Ivan who initiated the kiss, and, for certain with absolute acknowledgement, it was Alfred who returned it.

And that was how they remained for the duration, clung to one another as their bodies rocked so fluidly against the other, lips remaining locked as their mouths suckled the others. Alfred's breaths became deeper with each thrust, inhaling greater quantities through his nostrils while moans choked out of his mouth and down Braginsky's throat. He could feel his muscles tighten around the swelling cock and the slowly unraveling rhythm in Ivan's thrusts.

Always at the end Ivan became a little rough, if just to sate both of their bubbling degrees of bliss during a moment that was experienced for so short a time. Alfred gasped when the man reached down and took a firm hold of his hips, intent on plowing into him in their final throes. And Alfred clung to him throughout this last process, opening his mouth only for breathless groans to pass away.

Once more Alfred's body locked into a rigid stance when his orgasm washed over him the moment Ivan had stretched him to his fullest and rubbed so wonderfully inside. The feeling of the jets of spraying semen coating his inner walls had Alfred shuddering, trembling once more in Ivan's arms. But he remained still, and said not a word while the Russian continued to buck into him to relieve and ride out the remainder of his pleasure taken.

Ivan's head rested against Alfred's shoulder. His light hair sticking through combined sweat while they caught their breath. His grasp released Alfred's hips and now began rubbing up and down his sides for whatever reason he decided to.

Alfred didn't question or make any comment on what had just happened—what he had just allowed and subconsciously taken part of. He kept to his silence, focusing on closing his mouth to regulate his breathing through his nostrils again. He could hear Ivan doing the same exercises.

When the silence beat their waning breaths to the stand of attention, Alfred began wondering if the Russian would let him go. While Alfred had his hands placed on the sides of Ivan's ribs, it was merely for a place to rest them than a means to hold the Soviet commander. Ivan's own hands resided on Alfred's waist, Alfred could even feel the tell-tale signs of those thumbs caressing him.

Alfred was tired, now more intent to close his eyes and sleep until noon of the next day. That is, if Ivan allowed him to. Alfred doubted such an allowance, but when Ivan leaned back up and looked at him, especially when he closed his eyes and leaned forward to brush the lightest touch against forehead and tip of nose, Alfred thought that perhaps he'd found at least some small favor in the man. After all, he displayed such an affectionate motion that left Alfred almost reacting in kind, with eyes closing and breathing evening out for good.

Alfred hadn't remembered much after that save for lying on his side while the familiar sense of being wrapped in Ivan's arms . . . like how he used to spend his nights back when he had sworn duties to Braginsky's bed at nights during that horrid winter. But if Alfred found anything good in that it was the security he felt when dozing off into the blackness of weary rest and the unexpected pleasant dreams he'd only ever have when lying next to the man . . . or was it only when he resided in his arms?

Alfred had fallen into unconsciousness rest before he could determine his internal answer. He'd likely forget about it tomorrow, Braginsky as well.

* * *

Ivan had boiled himself something warm to drink after dressing himself in the morning. He woke up fairly early. The sun was just rising and he felt he had gotten enough sleep after his strenuous activities the other day. He certainly felt a little less tense when he sat himself at the table and attempted to dial in a proper frequency.

With the snow and rains cleared up and a new day begun, he found it acceptable to face the possible challenges of trying again.

He sat close and listened to anything he might pick it. It wasn't long before he managed to make contact. He grinned so big and felt a rush of excitement bubble up inside him. Wait until the boys found out.

' _We thought we lost you all to the chill of General Winter._ '

Ivan smiled and made simple small talk with the communicator on the other end after properly verifying his identity and the location of his regiment. It was good to speak with base again. "We might have," Ivan explained. "But we are Russian-bred, it was only a light snowfall. We could have probably carried on with just packs and our weapons. It was the vehicles, heavy machinery, and prisoners that slowed us down." Ivan glanced toward the bed where Alfred still lay slumber. His eyes took in the rise and fall of his chest before his mind focused again on speaking to a fellow Russian communicator.

' _Da, your report before the storm immobilized your forces was recorded. Is the number of heads with you the same?_ '

"Nyet, quite a few of the Germans perished in the winter, but we still have some who survived. I do wish to relieve their hold. We have more important things to do than attend to prisoners."

' _Do not worry, we'll send in a relief force to resupply your wounded or sick, as well as stock up your supplies and ammunition. They'll take the prisoners off your hands and send them to where they belong._ '

Ivan sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Good," he replied. There was a moment of just listening to the cackle of static while Ivan let his mind fall under a rest in knowing he and his men wouldn't have to live on rations for that much longer. It was a tedious task planning it out day after day as well as investigating the stocks that mysteriously vanish. They still had plenty to spare for a few more weeks, but they were still in need of relief.

Turning his eyes back toward where Alfred lay, Ivan felt his jaw clench for a moment. The tension in him returned and he struggled with himself to remain relaxed and forget about what internal annoyances he was dealing with. But, with a sigh, Ivan picked up the receiver again and opened his mouth to make communication.

"I have one last question before I leave you to your other duties, comrade." Ivan listened to the static, for a brief moment wondering if he had lost the frequency.

' _And what would that be, Lieutenant-colonel Braginsky?_ '

Ivan paused for a moment, not quite sure how to word what needed to be asked—what had needed to be answered and confirmed months ago. "Are there any reports of missing American platoons?"

' _This is war, comrade. There are missing persons every day._ '

"Around the vicinity, the Eastern Front," Ivan narrowed down.

There wasn't an answer. Ivan knew the officer was checking. It sounded crazy no doubt, as did it to he and his officers the first moment they heard it.

' _Oh, yes, there is. We've been getting numerous call-in's from a Colonel Johnson about a missing plane full of American soldiers. It has been noted the plane was on a course to the Western Front from the Italy region. It never reached its destination. Everyone knows they all likely perished in the crash, but their commanding officer is continuing to insist to inform our forces nearby. Have you come across the wreckage, sir?_ '

Ivan didn't say anything. The tuned static let Ivan know the receiver was waiting for an answer.

Eyes widening by the moment turned back over to Alfred's still slumbering form. He looked relaxed, something Ivan hadn't seen him like in a while.

Recollections of claims, statements, pleas from prisoners beaten into the ground of their status crawled into Ivan's mind, and before he lost his bearings he decided to end the conversation with base.

"Nyet, I have not seen the wreckage," Ivan answered before ending the call. And he hadn't. Neither he nor his men had seen anything akin to the wreckage of an aircraft. Finding it in the tundra around them was a little hard, many things went unchecked. But on the Front tensions were high as well as suspicions. Running into a group of supposed prisoners in a German brigade suddenly claiming themselves as American allies seemed all too farfetched for something so convenient.

Suddenly, Ivan felt the need for a walk, a very long walk. So he stood up and dressed himself. His mind constantly remained on the relayed message and the absolute clarification of a situation that had been pending due to disbelief and natural elements.

As Ivan placed his cap onto his head he turned back toward Alfred. He gazed at him for a moment, his mind at a standstill of what to do or even how to react to the information he'd currently been given to digest and discern its reliability. But there were little doubts in Ivan's mind as to the authenticity of this case.

Planes went down often in either fronts. Not many American planes, but the concept was never out of the question in the mayhem of the war.

But Ivan's need for a walk outside to inhale some fresh air for his cluttered mind called to him and he took that command first before following a set of others that would likely come when identities were verified and treatment questioned.


	7. There are Two Kinds of Salvation

One must never get attached to a comrade, to a lay of land, an unoccupied town, acquainted civilians, even the enemy you seek to kill. The only attachment needed in war was the way your hands grasped your weapon. Nothing else.

Ivan knew this, and he was an ideal soldier, at least he believed so. He'd killed many enemies, driven them out of Mother Russia, prided his generals, and more importantly, upheld Stalin's will. He made sure his name was not tarnished. He made sure there'd be no excuse even from lurking enemies in the kremlin.

Every yard of ground won was marked down with pride on the maps as gains for the strong Soviet Union. Every praising civilian that gave he and his men wreaths, food, supplies, they were forgotten to make room for a single minded thought: victory. And the enemies met and defeated were killed swiftly, and the prisoners sent off in a haste.

Germans cared nothing for Russians, and so Russians cared nothing for the Germans.

The death toll of how many they had killed was high, even for Ivan himself. He didn't remember names of the dead, nor their faces. The only thing he remembered was marking down the ranks of the Nazi officers slain so to grow his trophy case.

But now . . . now Ivan couldn't stop thinking about their faces. Every _American_ face.

From the ones blown to pieces during the assault on the discovered German regiment, to the ones shot for getting too close to Soviet officers, to the ones who fell over wounded during the march, left for dead, and then those souls that froze over during the long harsh winter, buried with the Germans that also shared their same fate. Their behavior, while annoying and upsetting as it was, was all now understood.

No matter how much they had been beaten, they would not utter a word in German, not even a curse—it was because they didn't know the language. Even while they attached themselves to their German prison mates they never confirmed fealty to them nor their commander. Constantly they tried to show the Russians that they were allies, but despite their accents, none believed them. None.

It was understandable too. This was the Eastern Front. What are Americans doing out here? Had the Germans taken the Russians for fools?

No, maybe the Russians were the fools this time.

Ivan contemplated on what would happen to he and his men. They had killed American soldiers. They had neglected understanding and killed their allies.

But it wasn't their fault. The reasons for finding them so far into enemy lines was preposterous. If it was vice versa even the Americans wouldn't have believed them. This was not their fault. It wasn't.

Even still, how would the higher ups view this? There was little forgiveness for grave mistakes like this in the USSR. There was certainty that none of them would be given light sentences for this. Not when the U.S. posed as a threat for Stalin's grand scheme. It was likely that the U.S. would be kept pleased and an ally for as long as necessary, and if they wanted this regiment and all of their heads on spikes, Ivan didn't doubt Stalin would offer.

The Lieutenant-colonel was brought out of his darkening thoughts in his walk the moment he passed by the sentry guards. They were amusing themselves with shooting glass bottles seated on a tree stump a distance away. Hearing them laugh and jest with each other did lighten Ivan's heart—or at least it used to.

Before this weighing situation he found they had unknowingly and so ignorantly walked into, Ivan would have trampled hundreds of German towns, villages, or cities just so that his people could smile again, just so that they could laugh and forget about the possibility of being killed the very next moment. He wanted their bellies full, their bodies clothed, their tables full of food. He wanted his country strong to protect its citizens from this demonic race that sought to wipe them out. He wanted the Germans to pay for even underestimating the Russians like that, he wanted revenge for every comrade they sent to the gas chambers and so carelessly murdered. If this was through sheer brutality then Ivan Braginsky was willing to enact that. He'd make sure those damn Nazis felt the fear those slaughtered Soviet officers did, and witnessed the might of the country that would strip them of all their gloated power.

These men were to be used as trade for other Russians captured by the Germans, and if there was none to save then the Nazis would be sent to Siberia, to their icy death. Ivan cared nothing for them, not from the moment he captured them, nor even now. The oddity of the supposed German prisoners claiming to be Americans wasn't something Ivan had heard used as a tactic against enemies before, but he didn't let it throw him off his guard. He would not put up with lying Germans.

Despite Ivan's assurance that he was faultless, he knew what would happen to he and his men. The order was not given, the sentence not yet carried out. He hadn't the heart to tell his men. To see them in a panic was not wanted. They didn't deserve this, none of them did.

So Ivan's eyes watched his men laughed, spout out jokes while sipping on their canteens and motioning their rifles to shoot at the bottles. The sound of bullets whizzing through the air, shattering through glass, or halting into brick and dirt filled Ivan's mind with memories of his first battle, of how he fought against the enemy, of how easily it was for a human to fall to one pallet of lead.

Ivan's gaze then turned back to watch how his men handled their weapons. They were shapely warriors, skilled and in their prime of build and spirit. They had survived this devastating war on luck and their ability to muster on. Ivan was proud of them.

They wouldn't refuse his orders. They were loyal to him. So, if Ivan so ordered them to line the prisoners— _all_ of them—he knew they would have no qualms with riding themselves of the German nuisance, and the evidence of an unknown sin.

The Americans had went down in their plane. No one would find them in this tundra. Nor the mass grave.

Ivan closed his eyes shut tightly, shaking his head. He moved away from his men, continuing his walk. He needed to get away from the comforting sounds of gunfire.

But when the sounds of weapons dissuaded, the sounds of injustice arose. Violet eyes turned and took in his surroundings. He had now found himself passing the prisoner section. The guards around had long since grown annoyed of the beggars and their antics. It was warm, the young soldiers' limbs moved freely, enough for them to beat the few prisoners they so wished.

Ivan could now _hear_ the sounds of anguish. He had been deaf to it before because the sounds had grown too common. He could now _see_ the fault in their stance on these prisoners, especially the Americans. And Ivan couldn't take his eyes away from the scene and on how the prisoner flailed, trying to get away from his attackers before he simply curled in on himself, begging they cease their assault with a perfect American accent, simple English.

His eyes then looked toward the other prisoners, noting how even though they were all dubbed the same, most kept separate. He could see the _American_ eyes on their comrade while Ivan's men relieved their upset over seen Nazis. Even after the harsh winter Ivan could see the fight in their eyes, the need to defend their brother-in-arms while the Germans—Ivan could now see the difference—looked on indifferently with only pity instead of a need to protect.

The sight of the beating, once encouraged and tolerated, now could be taken no longer.

"Enough!"

Ivan's command had startled his men. They turned to him, fists raised to deliver another blow to the bloodied prisoner. They looked at him questionably, even Ivan felt himself question his own actions. But, what could he do now?

With a frustrated huff, Ivan said, "Shouldn't you be cleaning your rifles? Just because all is quiet doesn't mean all is safe."

Even the sight of his men releasing the prisoner and standing at attention didn't please Ivan. Nor did their words of assurance that they would do as he commanded. There was something rising inside him. Perhaps a sickness, because Ivan Braginsky didn't fear anything, especially not a dishonorable discharge.

In the end, Ivan would exclaim that the churn inside his gut was instinct, another sense. Because the moment the skeletal structures crumbled overhead, his entire body lit on ice. Eyes wide while he thrust himself into his soldiers and pushed them out of the way.

His men were disoriented, and the dust clogging out the morning sun choked Ivan's lungs, but he got up quickly, wide eyes trying to pry into the mist to make sure that the prisoners weren't harmed. When enough time was given for the ash to clear he noticed the prisoners had managed to escape the collapse of the building they resided in. They were all huddled together, American mixing in with German while wide eyes looked toward the Russians, understanding that they had not issued the strike that they were indeed . . . under attack.

Shelling belched into the quiet air around. Barrages whistling through the air before ramming into earth or left over buildings not yet broken by enemy fire.

Ivan could hear his men shouting. He could hear the panic in their pitches. His eyes took in the sight of them struggling to climb out of their makeshift cots, trying to grab for their guns and fill up their cartridges.

Towers toppled over, trapping screaming soldiers underneath, but there was no help for the trapped while the other soldiers raced toward their heavy machinery to defend themselves. But these strikes were precise. Ivan watched as their katyushas were taken out one by one. Only one managed to fire and its rockets ended up striking the tree line, not a single target sighted amidst the dust.

Now wasn't the time to concern himself over the prisoners, nor the allies mixed mistakably within their numbers. He needed every man to take up arms and defend their position. If concrete towers gave way and crushed the men, or the enemy fire exploded near them, there was nothing Ivan, nor his men, could do. Their duty was to themselves and the fight for their lives.

Ivan pulled the guards up to their feet and pushed them forward. They had to run, to join with the others to form a wall. He ran toward the mess of his confused men and immediately began straightening out their lines.

"Reload the katyusha! Pick up your guns!" Ivan pushed through his men, trying to shake some sense into them. "Put on your goddamn helmets and fight back!"

"We don't know where they're coming from!" a soldier cried out, his eyes wide with fright and skin sprayed with the blood of his brothers.

The array of shelling deafened most of them, disorienting enough to have the men struggling to find a target to shoot. But, when all became quiet, when the crumbling structures of houses finished toppling over, one could hear it.

Ivan held up his hand for his men's silence. He glanced down, taking note on the vibrations felt on the ground, and the way the pebbles of brick bounced. Then, after the ringing evaded from his hearing he caught it . . . the sound of roars.

"Panzers." Ivan turned. He narrowed his eyes and finally saw the enemy. Germans, all of them coming out of the tree line equipped with a multitude of soldiers and a score of tanks.

After the destruction of many of their vehicles, Ivan knew they didn't have the chance of a good outcome when clashing with the enemy tanks. Looking around, he tried to find some high ground, but a majority of the buildings were turned to ruble.

"Split!" Ivan commanded while grabbing a rifle and slinging it over his shoulder. "They'll come straight through the town with the confidence from their tanks. We have to attack their flanks!"

Ivan could see the fright in his men. They relied too much on their heavy guns. Now was the time to fight hand-to-hand, if they could manage that.

"Abandon the katyusha and do as I say!" Ivan ordered.

His men were huddled around what they saw as their last line of defense. They had even loaded more rockets onto the platform.

"B-But sir, we can't hope to fight back against their panzers if we—"

"The damn vehicle can't move. Any found trying to operate this machine will meet a swift end by a shot from a panzer. If you wish to die like that then go ahead. Anyone else wanting to survive this battle, follow me!"

Ivan didn't give time for any more retort. And by the sound of the boots behind him he understood his orders had been taken and followed through. There wasn't much cover with most of the housing structures aside from piles of rubble on the ground, but the debris still safely shielded them from the oncoming soldiers as well as the eyes of the tanks.

Ivan motioned for his men to wait. They needed to capture the Germans in the center of the town. Their only hope of getting the upper hand now that their katyushas were out of commission was to surround the Nazis.

They all prayed for bravery, diligence, accuracy, but more importantly the Soviets prayed for luck. They were going to need every divine intervention to get the upper hand in this battle.

The dust was beginning to clear as the Germans moved into the town. The sound of the soldiers' boots thumped along with the cranking rolls of the panzers. The machines' roars made the Soviets quake where they stood and Ivan could already see the fear mounting in many of his men's eyes. They were not used to being without the protection of their heavy guns.

But, Ivan's been through this on countless occasions. It was how he rose to the rank he was now . . . because he survived when many of his comrades did not. He hoped this would not turn into those menacing and haunting bloodbaths from memory, but if it did, then Ivan intended to survive for as long as he could.

To some, the sounds of an invading force was horrifying, but to others it was a blessing.

Gilbert and the other prisoners had been startled by the sudden bombardment and, like their Soviet captors, took refuge as much as they could to shield themselves from the shelling. They were among the lucky to dodge the falling debris and soon enough they tried to make a dash for it while the Russians were distracted.

"Wait!" Gilbert's eyes widened. He looked at his men, he knew he wasn't the only one who recognized the familiar voices of their father language. He knew he wasn't by himself in recollecting the roar of their mighty tanks.

He and the other prisoners quickly darted toward the sound. Gilbert didn't care if the Americans lagged behind, wary of approaching the oncoming Germans. He and his men called up all of their strength to run toward the town center and greet their saviors.

As expected the men crouched, held up guns, ready to fire. The tanks even pointed their nozzles directly their way, but Gilbert only held his arms up, tears blurring his vision as he and his men lunged themselves into the arms of their brothers.

"It is us!" Gilbert exclaimed in German. They were wearing Russian coats, so it wasn't at all unexpected for the soldiers to suspect them to be Soviet officers, but the sight of worn humans, faces thin, tears in their eyes, smiles so wide that lips cracked, utter sobs in chopped German verified their status as comrades.

Soon enough the German soldiers embraced the prisoners, holding them tight and whispering words of relief to them.

"You came, you really came!" Gilbert cried after collapsing into the arms of strong young men, letting all of his stress and fear wash away as they held him up.

He watched as they turned. He watched as a higher officer dismounted from a panzer. In an instant Gilbert was traded from the arms of simple cadet to the commanding officer's.

"Bruder!" Gilbert cried out, his hands grasping at the man's uniform while tears fell out heavier, soaking into the fine fabrics of the blonde's neatly arranged attire.

The Prussian sounded miserable, absolutely pathetic. He had kept strong in the face of his waning men, but now he let go of such control to recount his horrors and pain in the arms of his younger brother.

"I'm sorry I took so long." Gilbert bawled into the tight embrace of his brother. He sounded strong, unlike himself. His deep baritone voice comforted the Prussian. "We received your distress overlay last year. I tried . . ." Gilbert felt the arms wrapped around him tighten even more, nearly lifting up his entire thin frame. "We tried to come as soon as possible, but the ice and the snow and the rains . . ."

"Ja," Gilbert croaked out. He smiled leaning his head to look back and take note of the strong face of his brother who looked absolutely distraught by the sight of the condition of fellow countrymen. "We know . . . we were immobilized by it too, Ludwig."

Ludwig grit his teeth, icy blue eyes looking at the fainting prisoners held up only by the arms of the stronger soldiers. He was disgusted by the sight, and so very angry.

"They'll pay for what they did." The growl rumbling in Ludwig's chest came out of his throat like a snarl. After which his eyes turned to scan their surroundings. "Where the hell are they?" The Germans were out for revenge. They wouldn't let the Russians get away with what they did. Even if they had run off like the perceived cowards that they were the Germans would follow them, hunt them down until they received their penance for this crime.

Gilbert opened his mouth. He was ready to tell his brother of how the Soviet cowards had ran in disarray, but red eyes widened at the sight of a figure stand up behind a pile of rubble and quite calculated raise a gun. Braginsky.

"Get down!" Gilbert sounded, using what little strength he could to tug his brother down to the cobbled street to avoid the shot that began their colliding battle.

The bullet whizzed overhead, missing the two German siblings but striking a prisoner clutched to a soldier. The man cried out as the shot ripped through his ribs, choking out on the blood clogging his airway before convulsing to a halt in his comrade's arms. The German soldier was covered in the rescued prisoner's blood, his eyes wide while his hands continued to grip the lifeless form. The soldier then cried out, let the body of a lost soldier fall to the ground while taking up his own rifle in an attempt to avenger his brother's death.

The aspiring Nazi soldier's attempt came to a sudden halt when a bullet ripped through his chest, followed by another straight to the forehead. The two assaulting forces of Soviet officers had stood up on either side of the German division and began their rain of fire.

The surprise attack downed many Germans, but they fired back, even as they were gasping, dying on the ground, their shaking hands clutched at their guns and fired back at the Russians, downing them one by one. Moans of the dying and screams of those in pain echoed into the air until it was all drowned out by the exploding shells of the aimed and firing panzers.

Bodies flew into the air as well-aimed shots were fired. The moment limbs were dismembered, the panic arose. Without proper cover for the Russians many of them opted to fall back, and the Germans simply chased them.

So many were shot in the back as the cowards ran and then as they lay on the ground crying out for mercy, their hands in the air, the Germans only answered them with bayonets. Gilbert nor the ones imprisoned with him felt sympathy for these monsters. His only regret was that the Americans couldn't see this and revel in the repay.

Gilbert actually itched to hold a weapon in his hands and repay these bastards for what they did to him and the others, but he was too weak to handle a grip, so he let his brother do the honors and satisfy his restless spirit by the departure of these Soviet pigs' souls.

The more Germans that were killed the more upset they became, the more Russians that fell the more desperate they grew. But they were smart. Every time they broke lines they led them into another split bombardment. So the Germans had to upturn every rock and flatten every pile of rubble to make sure the Russians couldn't hide behind them and leap out and attack them from.

So the Germans pulled back near their tanks as they laid waste to whatever was left to the town around. Everything came collapsing down and the sound of screams could be heard from the enemy. They'd make sure they had nowhere left to hide.

Battles were decided from the very moment they were started. And the Germans were winning. Ivan knew this, as did his men.

They looked at their commander with wide eyes full of fright. They tried their best to dwindle the Nazi regiment, but they couldn't get around the tanks that shielded a majority of the soldiers. The hope they had of defeating them was now bleak, their only possible chance of surviving was to run into the forest around. But Russians did not run, especially not from fucking Germans.

If they died then they would die for Mother Russia. Comrade Stalin would have no less from them.

But the battery around them was disorienting, deafening and blinding. While in the process of shielding themselves from the flying debris and collapsing structures, Ivan's men were easily picked off by gunfire cutting through the dust and powder to take down the number of lives.

The fights only grew closer when the dust settled and Nazi soldiers bounded after them. They showed no mercy to the Russians and opted only to give the dying the relief of death. There was no point in throwing down weapons. Ivan's eyes took in too many attempting this only to be shot dead like dogs. The bastards.

Ivan tried to defend his men, tried to silence their dying screams, but it was hard when his men faded around him and he was left solely standing while the screams of other Soviet soldiers waned in the distance in places Ivan could not find nor reach. They had lost, miserably so, and now this battle was turning into a massacre. The Germans meant to leave none alive.

The shockwave from a tank fire had knocked Ivan to the ground. He could feel some of the last housing structures collapse just overhead. When the toppling bricks fell silent Ivan pushed himself up, taking in the sight of the town with his own eyes as the dust cleared.

Everything was leveled. Even the previous piles of rubble were cut short. Not a single structure remained standing. Not even . . .

Ivan felt his throat restrict at the sight of the home he had taken residence in. It was gone. Nothing was left.

The radios had been kept in there, as well as Ivan's belongings and . . .

"Alfred."

* * *

Alfred must have woken up later. Ivan was gone. Not that he was complaining. But he grew tired of looking at the spot where the sheets were disheveled as if he missed him.

So he sat up, ignoring the aches on his body. He wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. He didn't want to give the Lieutenant-colonel a reason to keep him around if he chanced walking back into the house to see him still laying in bed. He wasn't looking to provoke any more favor from the Russian.

Finding his clothing wasn't too difficult, most of the articles had been dropped of the sides of the bed. The challenging part actually ended up being the task of dressing himself. Alfred had managed with the familiar ache long ago, he was fine and knew how to lace up boots after such strenuous activity. It was the understanding that he was putting Soviet attire on again that made it difficult to put the clothing back on.

_"Because you looked least like a Nazi."_

Just remembering what Braginsky had said to him irked him. He understood the continued disbelief that he wasn't really in fact an American, but to explain away his fond selection over the notion that Alfred looked good in his homeland's uniform was something that made Alfred sick.

_"And you looked very good when I dressed you as a Soviet officer. Is shame you aren't."_

Alfred's eyes glanced around for a fireplace. He felt the sudden need to burn these damn clothes, at least the jacket. But there was no fire with which to burn the attire and the reasonable thoughts on why Alfred should just keep the clothing sunk in, to which he found himself begrudgingly slinking on the coat with mumbles under his breath.

The sudden force of the shell's collision hadn't even been comprehended until Alfred found himself catapulting through the side window he'd been previously standing next to. The blessing for the glassless window hadn't even been thanked upon as Alfred collided into the dirt while dust shot up and brick flew in every direction.

The American curled, trying to protect himself from any of the falling debris, most of which flew over him and landed yards away. After he felt nothing else rain down, he began to focus more on the ringing of his ears. The sudden change in scenery had blinded Alfred for a moment. From going from the shadowed corners of the house to the bright white dust filled surrounding of the outside, it would make sense for any man to continually blink to adjust his blinded eyes.

Despite the confusion by the sudden occurrence, it didn't take a genius to understand that blast to have been an attack. And, if Alfred could get the ringing in his ears to settle down, he would plainly be able to hear the other hurdles of shells flying in the air and crashing into structures—as well as the screams of the dying.

But, it had been the shot of a simple rifle that shook Alfred out of his daze. He jumped, startled by the sudden clear noise. His body immediately turned and noticed a soldier standing atop a mound of ruble in what used to be the house Alfred had resided in.

Blue eyes quickly took in the uniform and the offensive position the soldier struck. It was a Nazi officer.

Alfred knew he didn't have time to raise his hands and exclaim he was an American simply garbed in Soviet attire—because that tactic certainly _worked_ with their Russian allies, hadn't it?—and if this battle fell into the hands of the Germans, Alfred swore he would not be put through another death march in his life. He was tired of being a prisoner.

Due to his past well treatment, Alfred's senses weren't completely shot like the other malnourished prisoners. So his reflexes acted as quickly as he needed them to.

A hand reached beside him, grabbed a perfectly sized chunk of brick and threw it at the soldier as hard as he could. The German didn't have time to react after his first fire and the piece of debris struck him right in the face, no doubt breaking his nose as he was thrown off balance. Alfred didn't have time to thank his baseball arm and quickly pushed himself to his feet, coming over the moaning soldier.

The moment Alfred had jumped upon the man the soldier grabbed for his walther to fight Alfred off of him, but in their struggle Alfred had managed to maneuver the man's hand upward and pull his trigger finger. The man slumped after a precise bullet was let loose up his jaw and through his skull. The sound of its halt tinking against the man's helmet echoed in Alfred's mind, it made his heart race, but he had to fall away. He had to find a place to hide because he knew this was an assault and by the cleared sounds in the air, the Russians were losing.

Alfred would have ran for it, the tree lines looked like better coverage than this dwindling town, but of course his surveying gaze would have caught sight of a mostly intact radio. Alfred would have just damned the machine for his own need to survive, especially after going through so much, but something pulled him back to it and he found himself cursing, eyes continuing to look around for any sign of oncoming German troops while he moved debris off of the radio to see its condition.

There was absolutely no time to sigh in relief for the mostly untouched radio. Alfred quickly got to work in trying to find a link. The ongoing static set him on high nerves. The sound of marching boots and distant shots made Alfred twitch, his fingers shaking while turning the nob.

Finally however, finally he found something. It might be Russian, but at least Alfred managed to contact another signal. Quickly reaching around he looked for the receiver, but when Alfred found the wire and made to grap the mouthpiece he found it cut, missing.

"Damn it!" Alfred cursed. His eyes then sought anything else he could possibly use. The house was completely destroyed and any luck digging through the rubble would prove hazardous. So, Alfred looked for any other objects that had flown out with him.

His heart skipped a beat when he noticed yet another radio atop the mound he was hunched at the base of. It was at a horrible spot, chancing a risk that Alfred might be seen by oncoming soldiers, but there was also a hope for an intact receiver.

Alfred went for it.

He was careful when he poked his head up over the mound. He did a quick survey before looking at the condition of the radio. It was horribly broken, wires spewing out like guts, but the one thing it had perfectly functioning was the receiver. So, he quickly began loosening the wire to pull the piece off. While he did so he kept his eyes on just what was really happening in the city.

There were panzers tearing down everything they came across, and so many German troops shooting back at the Russians who tried to fight back only to fail miserably. Alfred noticed the Russians had been run thin of ammunition, and their larger weapons already taken care of. It was a bloodbath.

Alfred could even see how the downed Soviets tried to surrender only for the Nazis to come and put a bullet in their heads while continuing to chase those trying to fall back. There was no mercy.

Finally tugging out the wire, Alfred slid right back down to the bottom of the mound to quickly patch the radio back together. Once he did and all the wires were connected again he took up the receiver with shaking hands and began to radio in a distress.

"This is Soviet brigade 105, we're getting battered out here by an oncoming Nazi division!"

Alfred listened closely for any response. The static had worsened, but he could clearly make out responses, however in Russian. So, he repeated his distress.

"Soviet brigade 105 under heavy fire by Nazi forces. Taking casualties. Cannot fight back!" Alfred still couldn't make out a word the Russians were responding back with, but it was a high possibility that they were inquiring on his use of the English language in that moment. So, he enlightened them. "This is Corporal Alfred F. Jones from Paratrooper unit 44. Send assistance!"

Alfred fell flat for cover after hearing the whistle of a shell whizz overhead. It hit yards away, but it still rung Alfred's ear enough to deafen him to the static echoing out from the radio.

When he got up it was slow this time. His body felt weary, heavy, his motions lagged even in the face of possible death. He moved away from his position, knowing that the mound he huddled against would soon be leveled. He had to make for the tree line.

Shoving away his weariness, Alfred took what strength he could and ran. If he could steal enough bases when he was in a pickle during games back home then he could dart his way out of enemy fire. At least he hoped so.

It was hard to make his way out of a town that hardly provided any cover. Keeping track, Alfred could see the German troops checking the bodies strewn out for life, if anything was found they were either bayoneted or shot in the head. It was a horrible sight, one that had Alfred damning the Russians for not running like the rest of them should have.

His thoughts turned to his brothers in arms, praying that they had made it out of this mayhem when it began. He wouldn't let them suffer under the Germans should they seek to take prisoners. He most certainly wouldn't stand for them being shot because of misidentification.

While Alfred needed to keep his mind to get his own hide out of the line of fire, in his moment of making sure he wasn't being followed, nor was he spotted by a Nazi or tank, a familiar sight halted the American. He should have kept moving. He should have let the urge to meet up with his brothers push him forward no matter the sights and sounds he passed, but he stopped and he couldn't move any further when he saw him.

It was Braginsky.

The Russian was some yards away, but Alfred noticed those violet eyes zoned in on the flat expanse where the house dubbed as his quarters once resided. He was alone, covered in the blood of either his fallen men or the enemies he had managed to kill. He looked tired by his uneven steps, just as disoriented as his men being put out of life by German troops set on catching every last breath.

If the man knew what was good for him he'd run. If he stayed he'd be killed too. But, Alfred knew that he wouldn't run, especially not with the way his motions lagged.

Alfred would have just left. He would have ran. He was not intent on seeing any more carnage, but when the Lieutenant-colonel glanced over toward him their gazes met.

At first Alfred wasn't certain if the man even knew who he was looking at. But, when recognition passed through dull irises, Alfred witnessed a new wave of determination pass over the Russian. He even took note on how his limbs trembled and the grasp upon his gun tightened. Alfred could see his reactions as clear as day, he felt he was standing face-to-face with him, such a strange feeling and even before Ivan opened his mouth to speak, the words already rung in Alfred's ears.

However, Braginsky never got the chance to say what his mouth opened to spout. Alfred's blue eyes widened in the catch of movement just behind him. He hadn't had time to catch the image of Gilbert who was indeed standing near, but more so the higher ranking Nazi officer who had raised his handgun and easily shot Ivan.

The bullet ripped through the Russian's throat, shattering out the side. Alfred flinched after the fluids even managed to reach him. But when his eyes opened again he took in the sight of Ivan's fallen form, gurgling, bleeding out on the debris riddled ground.

When he looked up at the Germans he noticed the man who had shot him was seething. His gun continually held Ivan's writhing form. He meant to come closer to plant a bullet inside his brain.

Alfred hadn't been noticed. He could still run, but he was frozen, absolutely startled just by watching the Soviet commander fall. Ivan had been stupid in not paying attention to his surroundings and he got what he deserved. But then why was Alfred shaking in the fright that should be felt for the one dying?

With wide eyes Alfred watched the German come closer, but his eyes didn't take in the sight of the tall blond man more so than the familiar appearance of an old prison mate. Sure enough, there was Captain Gilbert, staying close to his fellow countryman. He looked thrilled, absolutely overwhelmed with high emotions seeing Braginsky down. Alfred could understand why, but to revel in bloodshed wasn't right, no matter what these bastards put them through.

Alfred knew it was dangerous, and it wasn't his best decision, but when mental agreements were made at the last minute, it was either good or bad, no in between. He had ran faster than he had before, the moment he was in range he knew he would have been seen if not heard, but there was so much anger in the Nazi officer's eyes as well as Gilbert's that neither had even noticed Alfred's approach until he had slid himself in between Braginsky and the readied barrel of a walther.

"Don't!" The word came out of Alfred's throat before he could even reel in his thoughts to form formidable sentences. He was honestly surprised he hadn't been downed by battle-ready reflexes, but he owed it to Gilbert who was quick in recognizing him despite his own Soviet official attire. The Prussian had pushed the aimed gun aside, stepping in front of the German officer to act as a shield for Alfred as the American had so reenacted for Ivan.

"Alfred!" Gilbert gasped, falling to his knees and wrapping his arms around the defensive boy and pulling him close. "Mein Gott, Alfred!" Gilbert tears could even be felt as the Prussian clung to him, so very happy that they had both survived this.

But Alfred had to pull himself away. He had to set up defining lines because it was now or never to pick sides. "Stop," he said, pushing away. "Don't do this. You've won. You're free. Just go."

"Come with us, Alfred," Gilbert pressed, trying his best to rub the dust and dirt off of Alfred's grime covered face. "We'll treat you better. None of you will suffer like what they had put us through."

Alfred could hear the hate in Gilbert's voice when mentioning the Russians, and rightly so he should be smiling at in, accepting it as his own as well, but he held his silence.

"No," Alfred refused, shaking his head while trying to make a distance. A loud gasp behind turned the American and he scooted himself closer to the downed Russian. Alfred was quick to press his hands against the wounded throat, trying his best to staunch the bleeding.

"What are you doing, Alfred?" Gilbert's upset rose as did his tone while he moved closer to the boy and tried to pull his hands away from Braginsky's throat. "Let the bastard bleed out. He deserves nothing better for what he did to you!"

"Get off!" Alfred demanded, shoving his elbow into the Prussian's gut, making him back away. His aggression had riled the German commander standing near and it was no surprise to feel the sudden feeling of a gun barrel pressed against his forehead.

"Nein, nein! Ludwig, stoppen!" Gilbert demanded, pulling at his brother's arm again to move his pistol away from Alfred's direction. The two argued for a short moment before silence overcame the scene. The sounds of troops in the distance and the rumbles from tanks were the only things heard, and then there was the gasping gurgles from the Soviet Lieutenant-colonel.

Alfred tried to pull his attention away from the Germans, from the weighing balance of his life, from the destruction and death around him. He even tried to tune his ears to the grunts and groans passing through Ivan's grit teeth while the American applied more pressure to clog the bleeding. Even still he found his mind near blank on what else there was left to do and the useless meanings thereof.

It was Gilbert's voice that broke through the silence. "You'd really stay with them . . . after all they did?"

"Go." Alfred didn't want to turn to him. He didn't want to fall victim to promises of better treatment and the possibility of release when in reality he and his boys would only be in the territory and hands of the enemy—again. No, Alfred refused to go through that again. "I contacted help. They're on their way."

A silence followed after. Even Gilbert should understand that when Alfred made up his mind he wouldn't change it. But the frustration that the man remained, that he looked at Alfred like a goddamn fellow countryman arose inside the American making him churn at the feeling, grit his teeth and turned to look back at the man with hard eyes.

"Go now, unless you're going to help me!" Alfred pressed down on Ivan's wound harder, making the man shake to emphasize that he was still alive for as long as he held back the leakage.

The outburst certainly didn't startle Gilbert, no, Alfred didn't think it would. After all, the man was used to his tantrums and pitiful spouts. But he was also very understanding and Alfred simply watched him stand up and turn to his brother.

"Goodbye, Alfred. I hope . . . I wish you the best . . ." Alfred turned his gaze away. He didn't need to look at the German. He didn't need to let the man see him blinking to fight back the sting in his bloodshot eyes. "Maybe, when all this is over, we can get a drink, ja?"

Alfred kept to his silence. It was for the best. For both of them.

"Ja."

And that was the last Alfred heard from the Prussian. He didn't even turn to watch the troops fall away, nor even to see which direction they turned. Alfred held his ground, and focused on holding the bleeding wound.

"Stay awake," Alfred demanded, smacking the Russian's face just to keep those fluttering eyes opened. The day was falling away but that didn't give Braginsky an excuse to fade to his death. "Reinforcements are coming. They'll help . . ." Alfred looked down at his blood-soaked hands and managed a chuckle despite his need to just cry. "They'll do a much better job than me." He chuckled again before he bit his tongue to silence himself. He began to hiccup to sound as if he was weeping, crying. He wasn't, and Ivan better not think it was for him and his condition.

Alfred didn't care if the Russian was moaning and choking in pain. The wheezing let him know he was at least breathing. He would just have to deal with the pain whenever backup came . . . if they were.

Alfred began to wonder if his message had even managed to make contact, or if it was even understood. He could hear the moans of the dying fading so fast as night set in. One by one they dwindled until only the rasping wheezes of Ivan's gurgles were heard. They were the last living beings alive, weren't they?

The pain of time ticking away made Alfred grit his teeth. "Dammit, where are they?" He glanced around. It was becoming too dark to make anything out and he continued to concern himself for his fellow Americans. Where were they? Were they safe? Were they alive? "They always this slow?"

Alfred tried to chuckle in humor but his gut hurt and he quickly stomped on that idea. When he looked back down at Ivan he noticed his breathing quieted. For a moment he was frightened that the Russian had drowned in his own blood, but there was still a gleam in his eyes, and now, they were looking up at him.

"What?" Alfred questioned. "Didn't think I'd help? I told you . . . we're your allies."

After a cough, Alfred realized how dry his throat was. Yet he continued to try to keep on a look out for any light, for any movement. If they were close enough to radio in on a signal then they were close enough to have reinforcements by now.

And yet a pull continued to turn Alfred's eyes back down toward the man lain out on the ground. Ivan continued to look up at him, light wheezes seeping through his scarlet stained teeth. Alfred never liked the way the Russian looked at him. Not even when the man was bleeding to death.

"Stop looking at me like that," Alfred demanded. "Don't act so surprised that I," he coughed again, but caught himself, "that I did this." He had been so drawn in to the words in those amethyst irises that Alfred hadn't even caught notice of the Russian raising his hand to touch him until dirtied fingers pressed against his jaw. "Stop. Don't touch me." Alfred pressed his hands down a little harder on the wound to pull the man's arm away from him. "If you're strong enough to do that when why don't you hold your own damn wou—" The words were jumbled when the fingers slid up higher, brushing over Alfred's mouth to take notice in the feel of blood slipping down past the American's lips.

Slowly Ivan had brought his hand away to see the evidence of the American's health for himself. After those violet eyes took in the sight of the red staining his fingertips they flickered back toward Alfred. Now the reasons for the American's paler complexion was understood, and the waning strength in his grasp upon the Russian's wound.

"It doesn't hurt." Violet eyes once more delved into sapphire irises, taking note on the flickering gleam. "At least not anymore." Alfred had coughed, spitting up more blood but trying to will his trembling limbs to stay upright so he could continue to hold pressure on Ivan's wound. But he could feel Ivan's eyes on him, looking for it. He didn't doubt the man would find the wound taken in the abdomen. It was soaking such nice Soviet attire too. Oh well, what a waste.

"Just don't say anything." Alfred cringed. It was becoming ongoingly harder to breathe, and the more Alfred struggled against the pains in his body the more he felt the wetness seep down his abdomen onto his legs and the rubble below. "Just focus . . . on breathing . . ." It was a wonder if Alfred was saying that to Ivan or himself. Both candidates were having trouble taking in oxygen and both so very close to slipping into the unconsciousness before death.

But it had been Alfred, it had been the American who had collapsed first. He fell over, slinking over Ivan's body while the paralyzed Russian had now no way of discerning if the boy was still among the living. But the panic had not set in for long before the echoes of motors roared into the night.

In Ivan's hearing they sounded so distant, just out of reach, and he wondered just who they really were. His question was answered when Alfred's weight was lifted off of him and lights blinded his vision. He recognized the medics. They were Soviet and they were there to rescue those who managed to survive.

The feel of proper bindings being wrapped around his neck was felt while fingers pried his weary eyes open to check for dilation. After the spots faded from his vision and the uttered words of concern the doctors spoke faded into muffles, Ivan's gaze searched for Alfred.

He sight finally found the boy's image. He could see the medics tearing off his jacket and shirt to look at the bullet wound. He wanted to hear what they were saying about it, but when Alfred began shaking he only caught their exclamations of his state shifting into shock, and just like that they hauled the stretcher they had placed him on into a truck and motioned it to speed away.

They were now working on putting Ivan on a stretcher to carry him away, but all he heard was relieved sighs of how his wound had clotted and how he was among the very few that had survived the assault. These words were all that Ivan had heard on his ride back to base. They were meant to keep him in high hopes when the surgeons were brought in to sew him back together and to make sure his vocals hadn't been damaged.

Not a damn word could sway Ivan's thoughts from the one who saved his life. But not a single inquiry would be answered afterward. Not when the Americans' commander came to the camp and forbid the Soviets from taking any more information out from them. The men were sealed off and just as quickly shipped out of the Russian camp, the wounded, fragile, and even the dead.

With the American presence gone, so too were the dwelling thoughts on the crimes committed unknowingly against them. The stress was left for another day. After all, the USSR needed its soldiers healed and shipped back out on the front. They were so very close to Berlin and they needed all of their able bodied men as quickly as possible. The war was almost over anyway.


	8. None Survived

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, guys, for being such a downer, but, unfortunately, I am no longer feeling up to posting my stories. This decision was mulled over for a while now due to conflict with other FF members who constantly fight/degrade/and don't appreciate my stories. So, I've decided I'm not going to waste any more time uploading stories to be harassed with. 
> 
> Now, there is a possibility that I might just take a break for a while and come back later, but I'm not sure I like the stress I have to deal with during each upload. There's also a possibility that I might not. I love Hetalia so much still and definitely won't love another fandom for a long time. Unfortunately, I just don't like dealing with the flamers.
> 
> I do still have a few fics left incomplete due to laziness and unpopularity. I may or may not try to finish those. Really depends on my mood, sad to say. Again, sorry to be a disappointment. Hopefully I'll get out of this rut one day.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy the conclusion of this story! And if not, well, then sorry to disappoint, again.

Berlin, Germany 1945

It was vaguely humorous in a way; in the beginning a soldier wore their wounds, their marks, their scars with the pride of their nation which they fought for, but after the fighting ceased, and after treaties were pulled out and territory annexed, these bravely battle-scarred men were told to conceal their dignity, as if to make it look like the horrible travails of war never happened. How funny the times have changed so quickly and so drastically.

In the beginning, the oncoming threats of war was so very hard to keep up with, but now it was the insistent eradication of said memories that none would ever be able to forget. The soldiers were all just simple men after all, traumatized by the sights and sounds and deeds of the fighting. So, they were treated with booze, and kept a close eye on by their superiors to make sure they held their victorious smiles on their faces and bright thoughts of the future in their hearts—because the hospitals were full of the mortally wounded and dying, they had no room for those of mental degradation; it was simply a symptom the nations weren't willing to invest time and resource in.

So, of course Ivan Braginsky was seen constantly tugging on the scarf wrapped securely around his neck. But he wasn't the only one monitored to keep all the memories of war to himself. His eyes casually roamed over his glass of selected alcohol toward other fellow soldiers. Some wore gloves to cover their mangled, or missing, hands. Some even pulled their crutches away and sat at a certain angle at their stools or booths to hide the fact of their missing limbs.

This was the end of the war and so there was a plethora of the wounded and scarred. The sight of them once was upheld and encouraging, now they were going to be shipped back to their cities, towns, and villages as quickly as possible so the rest of the masses didn't have to remember what all they had went through to achieve this victory. It was a shame how these brave men were treated, but at least they could still laugh and joke around with their comrades all while raising a glass to the long-fought for victory.

There would come a day to remember the dead, and all of the actions that those who survived had done just to live another day. But it was not that day, not with the records blasting the latest hits, and the brews fizzing, waiting for opened mouths.

The German bartender looked nervous with the array of Soviet officers frequenting his bar. But Ivan felt no sympathy for those who lost the war. They were the antagonists anyway, breaking oaths and fealty just for their own gain, all in time of killing millions just to settle their disputes.

Ivan was certain he and his fellow soldiers would not forget the sins of their enemies and would be quick to remind them of their transgressions if they so much as stepped out of line with them. It was a wonder if the Nazis even felt the guilt of their actions in this war, but the edgy look the old German was giving to each of those soldiers attending his bar would suffice enough for the time being.

However, he didn't look any more relaxed even when a band of American soldiers bustled in, bright white straight smiles with voices louder than their Russian allies booming upon their entrance. Being the latter of the allies to arrive in Berlin, they certainly held their demand about them as they pushed Soviet soldiers aside to take up the stools and congregate with each other.

The sight of their uniforms, the sound of their accents, and the number of their comrades often reminded Ivan of a time he desired to forget. As of then he was probably the only Soviet officer that remembered that frigid and immobilizing winter that only led to tragedy.

After the discovery of the mix-up, Ivan knew his superiors were trying to cover up the mistake as well as save themselves the trouble of trying each officer that had survived in his unit. After all, Lieutenant-Colonel Braginsky was one of the Soviet Union's best. What would it look like to the populace if he was put on trial for unintended war crimes? Of course not at least while the war was going on. Stalin needed all the good soldiers that he could muster, and so after recovery Ivan and those few who survived alongside him were sent out back to the Front.

Such an easy way to nobly be rid of living shames.

Against all odds Ivan had survived, much to the top's chagrin. He took part in beating the Nazis back to their capital, as well as was among the men who rushed in to take the city for Mother Russia. He was a hero to the men he fought alongside for, but even still, the title of hero could be as easily stripped away from an officer as a ticket to Siberia placed in his hand.

Ivan often wondered what was to become of him now. He had hopes of seeing his sisters again at least, but even while reveling in the high of a victory well-earned and the end of a terrible regime brought down by he and his comrades, he had a feeling that something as simple as visiting his family again might be out of reach.

And so he intended to drink himself out of his mind like many others huddled into the battered bar. It was an easy escape from reality. However, no matter his earnest desire in this task, the Lieutenant-Colonel's attention was constantly brought back to the boisterous Americans. He didn't want their attitudes in the bar to keep his attention, but it did, and many other Soviet officers' eyes turned toward them, mumbles of upset under their breath as well as admiration for their cheerful attitudes even after so much that had happened.

Their spirits, whether forced or genuine, created a nice atmosphere, and everyone gradually gravitated toward them and their enthusiastic chatter, however, they made their intention known that their party was strictly reserved for Americans only. It was interesting how quickly the allies became their enemies when just before they had embraced as East met West. How typical.

So Ivan minded his own, like the rest of his brothers around. Heaven knew how the Kremlin would handle him if he got caught up in one more American scuffle. Ivan was certain he was seen as dead to the American generals. It had been what they wanted, and it had been what the Kremlin tried to accomplish. Yet, there he was. Perhaps his untimely end would come about eventually, however, he did not intend for it to be in a Nazi bar.

Standing up, Ivan once more tugged on his scarf to keep his scars away from secretly traumatized eyes. While making his way past the crowded room he felt the need for one last drink. So he moved toward the bar station, even close to the party of Americans keeping the stools for themselves.

Ivan immediately felt their condescending eyes on him as he leaned his frame against the station. "One last shot, German," Ivan so commanded. He was polite enough this time to speak in German just so the bartender could pay him more attention over the louder demanding Americans. The bartender looked at him, said nothing, but when he turned to grab a glass and bottle of Ivan's usual, the Russian knew the man had comprehended his request.

In his wait, Ivan decided to humor himself and turn his eyes toward the obvious glare of the American seated on the stool near him. Ivan offered him a smile and mock salute just to remind the solider they were still comrades—at least once the loose ends were settled in the German government. After which Ivan ignored the man and his companions just in time to take up his poured shot glass.

He wanted to down his drink fast and be off relaxing back in his room, perhaps even catch up on writing to his sisters, but the shudders from the doors hitting the wall just as more loud Americans caved into the bar initiated an immediate headache and now Ivan was having trouble drowning out their noise so he could take this last sip in peace.

"We're going to get you wasted before your trip back home!" Could the Americans be any louder?

Yet Ivan would not move from his spot even as more Yank soldiers clustered around, and demanded for the overwhelmed bartender's attention. While he wanted to leave the noisy atmosphere firstly. He supposed it was his stubbornness to move that caused one of the rowdy Americans to bump into him and knock his drink right out of his hand. The man offered a quick apology in choppy Russian, but didn't even offer to pay for the loss.

The irritation of it all almost had Ivan turning to stomp out of the place, but his arising headache needed quelled so he bothered the bartender for another round. The moment he downed this one he'd be off.

But the German was busy filling the requests of the Americans who continued to add to their list of orders. The man was flustered and overwhelmed, and Ivan took entertainment from his frustration if only while he waited for his drink. But his attention was all too quickly pulled from the busy bartender toward the bursts of laughter that erupted immediately after a round of drinks were served to the Yanks.

"Damn, Jones, we really need to heighten that tolerance up!" Ivan could vaguely hear the sound of coughing as well as the hard slaps to said unkempt soldier's back.

"Relax, Donalds, he's just a baby after all." The snickers arose along with more demands for their orders.

In that moment Ivan had received his shot and took it in his grasp, keeping his eyes on the crowding American soldiers so they wouldn't ruin his drink again. But as they moved and shifted around to help clean up the spit up booze downed by an inexperienced drinker Ivan was struck where he stood. The sight surprising him.

"Damn, Alfred, you got it all over yourself," one of the soldiers noted with a chuckle while he tried dabbing the towels to dry the boy's uniform.

"As well as Lewoski," one piped up which rang a chorus of laughter from the men.

"Alright, boys, here's some more. Might want to stay away from Jones if he attempts another." Everyone handed each other their drinks and effectively made a circle around the younger of the group who only glared at them behind spectacles and bravely took up his cup.

"Bunch of bastards!" Alfred piped up, his smile bright around his men as he pushed the cup to his lips, taking slow sips unlike his first attempt before.

Ivan was honestly surprised no one noticed his held attention. He couldn't even hear the sounds of his own countrymen in their own speeches to one another. His attention was shot, and he continued to observe the American troops before him, no one paying him mind while they drank their minds away.

There was a wonder where the time went and why Ivan hadn't so much as moved his body to just leave. His lips had pressed against the glass of his shot for so long before his next mechanical motion was to simply sit it down, not so much as even finishing its contents like he had sworn to do . . . a while ago.

Time ticked by not from notice of the clock on the wall in the corner, but at the sudden quiet the bar was becoming. High spirits were lulled after multiple rounds of ale and other beverages the consumers fancied. Most had either swayed back out of the bar to their hotels across the street, or simply settled into a booth for a quiet moment of card games or even a nap.

Ivan wanted to follow their lead and be proactive with his own motions, but he stayed leaning against the bar station, his eyes having fallen down to the clear liquid that he needed to down before he was out of there. But that certainly didn't stop him from paying close attention to the soldier still seated at the station just stools away from him. His friends had all left, either enjoying a nice nap in a booth or with an arm slung around a pretty girl awaiting outside.

He had heard that Alfred had sworn to catch up with them once he finished his drink, but as Ivan glanced back at him every now and then he understood that it was the nagging alcoholic intolerance that was keeping the young soldier up. The American would take a sip of it, sometimes a gulp, and try to down it as fast as he could without any inclination of queasiness falling over him. He had managed to drink two other cupfuls before but it was evident that he was struggling on this last one.

"Maybe you should just return to your room." Ivan managed to pull out a smile while keeping his eyes on the glass Alfred was grasping. "That way you'll have time to deal with the headache the following morning."

Amethyst eyes finally glanced up to look at those eyes of the American's. Though currently framed, Ivan could still catch their hue in the flickering lights overhead. Ivan was at no surprise to see the blatant shock awash Alfred's features. It was expected to see that face pale ever so subtly more, and those fingers curl tighter on the handle of the mug he had been clinging to recently.

If there had been any form of tipsiness bubbling up in the boy's body, it had quickly sobered out with his straight reaction to Ivan right then. But, after Ivan found his voice, his reigns on the motions of his body quickly fell right back in place. He had taken up his shot glass again and pulled it close to his mouth, keeping his eyes on Alfred.

"Nyet?" Ivan chuckled. "Fine then." He sat his glass back down before sliding it down the station. "Try that then, it'll keep you up for your trip home tomorrow."

With a push of his elbow, Ivan bid the boy off. In a sense Ivan was glad he hadn't wasted himself like the rest of the soldiers in the bar. Now he would know that sighting the American hadn't been a dream nor a battlefield illusion. There was a clarity in finally learning of his status after that massacre they had both went through, a humorous note arose as well just over the sheer coincidence. He assumed that even their top officials hadn't planned on their running into each other again.

Well then, might as well make his escape now before the bastard heads sobered up along with the rest of them.

"They told me you were dead."

Ivan's smile broadened. He should have just kept walking, he had already made it halfway to the door, but that pitched voice still seemed to have some command over his movements, and his body harkened to its call. He turned, noticed Alfred was now standing from his stool, hands clenched, eyes still wide. Another thing noted was the gazes looking at them, at the two making the most noise, but Ivan didn't worry over the drunkards staring at them, it was highly likely they wouldn't even recall his and Alfred's exchanged words.

"Keeping tabs on me, Jones?" There was some humor in his tone that made his smile twitch, just at the way the American reacted to his voice. He wondered if the boy was reliving memories he was told to forget. Perhaps then it wasn't just Ivan alone experiencing this.

"I-I'm not," the boy stuttered. "They said—"

"They were wrong," Ivan corrected. "But . . . maybe someday soon, da?"

Ivan reached up and tipped his cap to the soldier before pressing on. He pushed his way out of the bar, intent on returning to his room, or maybe even chancing a midnight walk. He could use one right now.

But the solitude and peace of mind that Ivan sought flittered away from him due to an unwelcome presence. With a sigh he stopped himself near a lamppost on the sidewalk.

"Return to your comrades, Jones. I am not a ghost or drunk illusion." Ivan turned toward his stalker then, noting the boy's expressions still hadn't changed. "You are free to come close and touch me. I am real."

Alfred didn't move, of course he wouldn't. But Ivan didn't desire to stare at him the entire night, and he would have turned and moved on in his walk hadn't he noticed something beforehand.

"You'd left your jacket," Ivan noted. "You might want to go and fetch it, the air is colder after the rains."

Unfortunately, keeping still and staring was what Ivan did. And he damned his senses for not taking him away from battlefield ghosts and mistakes made in war. He definitely should have guzzled that shot, would have done his wounds both outside and in some good.

"It . . . it's not that bad," Alfred finally said, blue eyes glancing away. "I've handled worse."

Ivan nodded. "Resilience to the weather but not to alcohol? A twist on things, I must say."

Ivan caught a twitch of a smile, and found himself a little annoyed at how the American situated his glasses on his nose. Ivan didn't like the spectacles at all.

"So . . . were you with the forces that took the city?"

Ivan nodded again. "Da, I was. Would be great to return home to see my sisters again, but my situation is pending."

Alfred hummed out his understanding. "Yeah, top's sending me and as many other boys they can fit on a plane home tomorrow. Gonna ship us out from England. It'll be good to get back to the States."

"I'm surprised they hadn't sent you and the others off sooner." Ivan had expected that all of the Americans that suffered alongside their German prison mates would be given leave from the war, but after seeing Alfred, he had reason to think otherwise.

"Didn't need to." Alfred seemed a little upset when he turned his face away, staring out into the streets, taking note of people passing by on the other side. "None of us were impaired, and could still hold a gun after proper recovery . . ." Ivan even caught how Alfred's hand subtly settled on top his abdomen, on the exact place he had been shot previously. "Even when a shell blasted me into the air and disrupted my vision, hey, at least I wasn't blind. They just fixed me with a pair of glasses, shoved a gun into my hand, and sent me back off to my commanders. We had a war to win, after all."

Ivan could easily sympathize with the boy. He knew what it was like to nearly lose one's life only to save it by chance and be thrown back into the slot to see if you were lucky again. It was a dangerous game, but one they both had no choice but to participate in.

"I'm certain you've received many heroic medals to show the family back home, da?" Ivan watched Alfred turn his eyes back to him. "Many of my own comrades are making sure to horde as many souvenirs to tell their loved ones upon their return. Would be fun stories for the children, da?"

"Oh, uh . . . yeah." Ivan could tell by the look in Alfred's eyes and the way his gaze fell that he was among the many who would likely remain silent to most of the war tragedies their families inquired on. Ivan couldn't blame him, far too many soldiers wanted to forget this war ever happened, and not talking about it seemed like the best first way in trying to forget it all.

Ivan was a smart man, he knew one needed to remember all of the happenings of war so not to repeat oneself. While there were certainly things that had happened to him and that he had done that he would like to act as if they had never existed in the first place, Ivan would keep them, and controversially cherish them even if he had a little time to do so.

Ivan didn't expect the same thought pattern from the American, after all, he likely went through more torment than even the Russian himself. So, he wasn't at all surprised to see the startle in those blue eyes when he had slung his coat over and sat it upon the boy's shoulders. The motion brought on a sense of deja vu . . . when the air was more frigid, seeping down ice upon them, and all Ivan had wanted was a warm body to lay next to him in his cot.

"Here is another souvenir for you," Ivan said while pulling away and surrendering his military coat to the boy. He had plenty others to spare. "You can go and tell your family about the horrible Russian commander that had mistook you and your comrades for Germans spies one chilling winter."

Ivan smiled cruelly at Alfred's stupor one last time. While he knew it would ease the mind just to forget, somewhere inside, Ivan had hoped that Alfred, nor the other boys rescued after the massacre, would forget their experiences if just to always remember him, even when he, himself, would be forgotten by his own country. It was a torturous send-off, but just Ivan's style.

"Do syvidanya, Jones." Ivan had tugged on his scarf again and crossed the street just in time for a patrol jeep to pass by, preventing any more attempts to be followed. He just wanted to return to his room and sleep away what was left of the night.

Ivan had some drink in his room and stayed there for a long time, but he couldn't seem to fall asleep, the night had grown too cold and the room he and his unit had been given lacked proper insulation. So he made his way back down to the lobby where the fireplace continually warmed the surrounding area. He sat close to it, brewed himself some dark coffee and tried to waste his time away.

However, the night seemed to grow longer when his previously gifted coat had dropped down on his lap, turning the Russian's attention over toward the sight of quite the upset American soldier.

"You think I want to remember what that bastard Russian commander put me through? You're out of your fucking mind."

Ivan noticed the confidence in Alfred's upset now. No more did his attitude and actions rely on the care of his men and fellow prisoners. He wasn't biting his tongue, inclining his head, nor making any other motion or gesture of submission. Ivan might say he missed these things, but he didn't want to provoke a fight, not among allies at least.

So the Russian simply chuckled, his fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. "You have gotten very good at stalking, Jones." Ivan turned his gaze back toward the fireplace, feeling it better to watch the dancing flames before him than the ones blazing in the American's gaze.

"Just shut up!"

Ivan certainly wasn't moved by the boy's tone or lack of respect. He'd dealt with him this way before, and even when the boundaries of prisoner and warden were washed away Ivan would not lose his way of handling with this confrontation.

"You're supposed to be dead!" It certainly sounded like Alfred had wished it. "In fact, I'm so disappointed you're not!"

Nothing was ever that easy, was it? Ivan simply sighed, accepted Alfred's disappointment that the American unknowingly shared with the Kremlin. How sad it was when your survival wasn't even encouraged.

Perhaps Ivan was glad he was still alive just to be a thorn in their side—in Alfred's side. Just to be a reminder of the mistake that haunted them all. Ivan had learned to accept this dark past, and so did Alfred.

"Did I really treat you that bad?" The question seemed to catch Alfred off guard. The boy was probably perturbed by Ivan's calm demeanor, an attitude he held quite professionally like he had back in that frozen tundra.

But of course Alfred didn't stammer for long, he seemed intent on letting his frustration seep out in his pitching tone. But it was a good thing this building was full of many men who were used to sleeping during the wails of sirens and vicious cries of battle.

"Of course you did!" Alfred retaliated. "And now you're wanting me to remember that—"

"Did I treat _you_ so bad?" Ivan once more asked. Yes, he had treated him like a perceived Nazi prisoner, but in all fairness Ivan recollected his revered favoritism and did in fact save Alfred from much of the cruelty that the others had experienced.

He watched Alfred's expressions shift. Subtly at first before turning into an entirely different look. His brows furrowed, lips pulled taut, and hands shook with clenched fists. "You treated me like a Nazi."

"Da, I did," Ivan agreed, as well as understood that Alfred wasn't admitting his privileged treatment compared to the others.

"You were going to send us off to Siberia to rot away in the gulags." Ivan could just hear Alfred's teeth grinding away.

"Da."

"You wouldn't have given a damn if I died there!" Alfred seemed quite upset over their almost destination. Perhaps the boy and his companions would have been happier had they stayed with Ivan and his unit?

A frown did settle on Ivan. He shifted in his chair for a moment before finding a comfortable position. He wanted to turn and look at the seething boy, but refused. He wasn't going to acknowledge anything through contact of eyes.

"Perhaps I would have." Ivan had meant to mumble it in his own native tongue, but it came out in a language understood by American ears. But he was not one to stutter and stammer over unintended messages. Instead, Ivan simply turned to Alfred and offered one of his trademark smiles hoping to stir up memories of unease inside the boy. "But it is all in the past now, da?" Maneuvering again, Ivan pulled out a flask he had taken from his room, uncapped it and poured some drops into his coffee. "Is best to forget about it, or at least try to."

They both knew it was highly unlikely any amount of drink could erase what had been done. But in that moment when Ivan took long gulps from his cup all became tranquil, if just for a little while. He glanced over, watching as Alfred plopped himself down in a chair. He looked horrendously exhausted after standing so stiffly and exerting himself like that.

"Feel better letting out all that steam?" Ivan questioned.

"No," Alfred answered honestly.

Ivan chuckled, keeping his eyes back on the flames. He clutched at his flask, unwilling to part with it before offering it up like he had his coat. "Then you best drink up, comrade. It won't fix your troubled mind, but it will certainly give you the illusion of it."

Ivan was honestly surprised Alfred had grabbed the flask from him and took a large swig from it. As predicted he shot upright and began coughing, but swallowed the contents nonetheless. Ivan snickered to himself and continued nursing his own drink, watching as the flames ate away at the logs piled up in the hearth.

"You're staying with the military right?" For a moment Ivan had enjoyed their surrounding silence, but the sudden cut of it all by Alfred's voice wasn't that much of a disturbance as he had once thought it would be. "Know where they're going to station you next?"

A smile twitched on Ivan's lips briefly. "I have my ideas. As to which one is the right one? Mm, I will wait for fate to decide that." Ivan's eyes turned back toward Alfred. The boy was laying his head on the back cushion of the seat he was sprawled over, staring blankly up at the cracked ceiling above. "How about yourself? After embracing your family, what will you do?"

Alfred smiled for a moment, thinking about his siblings and his parents. Jonathan already got sent home and now they were waiting anxiously for him. No doubt his mother would prepare a feast and stuff her boys like pigs. Amelia and Jan . . . God, they've missed so many birthdays, Alfred wouldn't be surprised if his little brother was his height by now and Amelia being tailed by multiple suitors.

He was excited to see them again, but after that, then what? After he settled back in Philly, then what? Alfred blinked and thought on it for a moment. In his stare he pulled the flask back to his lips and took another swig. This time he composed himself better when his throat burned from the liquid. It made his body shake and nails tingle. It wasn't as unpleasant as he thought it would be.

"I dunno." Alfred sighed, content on looking up at the ceiling, memorizing the cracks, wondering how they were made, and on the ominous footfalls overhead, rattling lamps and letting dust fall. "Play some ball, miss holding a bat and mitt in my hands." Alfred smiled fondly at that, closing his eyes for a moment just to smell the new leather and feel the sturdy grip of perfectly carved wood underneath his palms. The crack of the balls flying sent shivers down his body more so than the drink in his hands. The nostalgia was appreciated and welcomed. "But, probably head off to college after that. Dad wants all of us to get a better education."

"Oh?"

Alfred turned his head toward Ivan, noticing the way the Russian swirled his drink. He'd think the beverage had gone cold by now. They'd been sitting there for a while.

"And just what would you plan on studying?" It was all simple small talk, the likes that Alfred and Ivan used to have during their dinners in his tent. Those times hadn't been particularly unpleasant, but Alfred wouldn't admit that aloud.

Alfred rolled his shoulders. "I dunno. Maybe I'll decide when I enroll. Jonathan wants to get into engineering. Maybe I'll follow his lead."

"But what do _you_ want to do, Alfred?" Blue eyes turned toward the Russian. Ivan was looking at him now. Alfred wouldn't think he'd ever be able to forget the Lieutenant-Colonel's eyes. There was just something unforgettable about them.

"What I want to do?" Alfred mimicked the question in a mutter while his eyes fell down to the flask in his hand. After a chortle, he answered. "I want to go home to my family, go back to my room, back to my bed, wrap myself in my sheets and fall asleep for days. That's what I really want." He glanced back toward Ivan. "How about yourself?" The more questions asked, the more honest was revealed.

"Nothing matters anymore. So me wishing for something for myself would only dishearten my spirit. Wouldn't want that." Ivan almost seemed sad, but, more importantly, he seemed alone. Alfred hadn't asked, but he suspected that those few Soviet officers that survived with Braginsky were dead, weren't they?

But Alfred felt no sympathy for him. The bastard was only getting what he deserved after pushing so many through the torture he ordered. Yet, even still he continued conversation with him into the night, and drank whatever concoction the Russian had carried within his flask.

For a moment, Alfred acknowledged the truth in Ivan's previous words in his mention that the drink would help ease his restless soul. He felt relaxed, melded into the chair he lounged upon. Time seemed to slow as well as lull him into a state of content, even in the presence of an enemy.

Even after the clarification of Alfred and his fellow men's identity's, they never looked at their Russian compatriots the same again. Absolute revile and distrust was always spewed their way, and their attitudes were never corrected by their superior officers. It was accepted silently because they all knew what had happened to them. No one said a word, but everyone remembered.

Perhaps that was why it was so hard to deal with?

Yet Alfred continued to recall every traumatizing event while standing—or in this case, sitting—near Ivan Braginsky; the officer responsible for most of his internal strife. He knew he would likely never find solace in what had happened to he and his men, however, it was a strange sort of—illusion maybe—how he felt he could come to terms of somehow coping with it, so long as the man who did those vile things to him and his men listened to his rants, looked at him and showed him that he understood his hurt. And Ivan did, that is what upset Alfred the most.

The Russian was no repented saint, and Alfred wasn't so keen in giving him the forgiveness he did or didn't seek. But they sat near each other like they had used to, talked about things besides the war. It was amazing how they could still hold regular conversations with each other, even when Alfred's speech began to slur.

It had been Ivan who had stood and come up to the swaying American. It had been the Soviet Lieutenant-Colonel who pulled the empty flask out of Alfred's grasp and advised the boy to be off back to his comrades and room. And perhaps it was Braginsky who had seduced Jones to stand up and lean on him, arms wrapped languidly around his tall form while feet walked in front of the other.

Alfred would certainly blame the man in the morning after his headache quelled for taking him to his room, for pressing his hand against that one place on his back that made Alfred stand up just a little bit straighter, lean just a little closer to the Russian commander. It certainly wasn't from Alfred's own will to wrap his own arms around a scarfed neck and lean in so dangerously close until intoxicated breaths mingled. Alfred reasoned that he was drunk, out of his mind, yet . . . so very _aware_.

Aware that Ivan's unique taste was once again on his tongue, invoking memories from a time hated and yet . . . Alfred was aware of how Ivan had pushed against him, as if trying to pry him off, but he was more so aware of clinging fingers all too quick to give in to the moment of weakness on both their parts. After all, Braginsky wasn't as intoxicated as Alfred, he was used to whatever strong drink he had been given, and yet his mouth moved just as sloppily over Alfred's as the American's had over his.

They wouldn't pull apart even though they both knew they should have. When they made to break they only crashed together once more, just as ferociously as the last time. With each touch came a reaction, something Alfred knew was trained into him, and perhaps into even Braginsky himself.

No one could speak when mouths remained locked and hands spread out, slipping under loosened uniforms just as soon as legs tangled together. They had tumbled then, but the bed was close and easily defended their fall. The bounce of the mattress springs hadn't thrown them off one bit, their only stammer in movement was to better position themselves on the bed so neither chanced tumbling off the sides.

Once their positions were better secured, they moved freer against the other, making quick work of their coats, their shirts, their buckles, their pants. Alfred had heard Ivan shudder out a gasp when his wet lips traced over the red scar upon his neck. He remembered holding the wound down with his bare hands, holding to make the bleeding stop so that Ivan could . . . so that he could . . .

Alfred felt his own breath leave him then, his body arching while his own sensitive wounds, possibly still healing, were touched and given as much attention. Blurry eyes looked down at the Russian who had placed an ever so gentle kiss upon the round scar of the bullet wound on his abdomen. There was a look of what seemed like regret in Ivan's eyes when he traced fingers over the indent, but Alfred didn't want to think about the possibilities of that and so he cupped the man's face and pulled him back over him, covering him while his lips enticed the older's to pay more attention to higher parts.

Alfred didn't want anything significant about this to stick out so that way he wouldn't remember it when the morning light peaked through the window. So that way he'd be able to sleep his hangover off during the plane trip back to England, and then rest in his hammock while sailing back to the States.

But his body seized up when prodding fingers pressed against him, applying pressure to bury themselves. Alfred kept his eyes closed, but body obedient, relying on familiar motions to get him through this process.

"You're trembling." So Ivan had taken notice.

Alfred opened his eyes. He felt that too gentle of a touch press against his cheek. Alfred hated it when Ivan touched him like that. It was because he knew of the harshness in that palm, one that Ivan hid so very well like the sin it was.

While his vision was no longer the best from recent events, that did not stop Alfred from narrowing his eyes, from glaring at the man atop him. "I'm not afraid of you," Alfred swore this, he had sworn this from the very first day he met the Russian.

"Is that so?" The hand on Alfred's jaw was thought to caress, but, instead, it gripped, held Alfred's face still for the Soviet to examine. "Then why are you crying?"

Alfred felt fingers trace up his cheeks, smearing the moisture so that even his numb senses could receive recognition from the action. Alfred was surprised by the tears, but he couldn't help but understand why they came. And, like usual, Ivan had leaned down and pressed his lips to those wet cheeks, sending out some type of affection that Alfred never accepted but simply only understood.

The tears never stopped. Alfred had hoped they would. But, he knew he had too high of hopes to wish on such things.

He really didn't know what to think of himself, of this situation he now understood he had brought the both of them into, and of the reactions he received from Ivan. Every time he tried to shun these clarifying thoughts aside they would return with every press, kiss, and caress. Alfred understood that it was because he was with Braginsky, and that the man had left a mark on him, one that there was no chance of erasing.

When Ivan pressed in, and when Alfred threw his head back and cried out in bliss, it was then the American knew that he had never really survived that hellish winter. Neither of them.


End file.
